Let the Words Fall Out
by A.J. Parker94
Summary: Being a mute can be difficult, especially when you have a lot to say in a world that barely listens. Harley Watson has had this problem for a long time. When she's sent off to visit her uncle John on holiday, she meets his unusual flatmate, Sherlock Holmes. From gruesome experiments in the fridge to crime-solving nonstop, he's quite an odd one...an odd one who can somehow hear her.
1. The New Kid on the Block

**A/N- This here is my first attempt at a Sherlock fanfic. So I'm pretty nervouscited (nervous/excited) about this! This will either go down nicely, or in agonizing flames. Either way, it's probably gonna be hilarious for the rest of you.**

 **The idea for this story actually spawned from another idea I had a while back. I'm wanting to write my own story someday about a girl who is a mute, and how she goes through her adolescent years learning to deal with it. Sherlock was just there in the thought process- and I love Sherlock, one of the best shows ever. So basically, this Fanfic is like a test-run to see how well I do with a character like so.**

 **Plus, I hardly ever come across a Sherlock fic with a kid/teenager in the story, let alone one who is mute (I know they're out there somewhere. Holla out if you're one of those). So this is me trying to do something a little...different.**

 **Fair warning: I'm American, and although I know things are spelled differently or called something else in the British English language, my computer disagrees. So if you Brits see something so totally alien, that's just me and my dumb American self with my dumb American computer.**

 **Disclaimer: I own nothing but my OC, a couple of Breaking Benjamin CD's, and a plush Stitch...and my dumb American computer.**

 **This is for those who, like me, struggle with speaking out. And express themselves best through written (and typed) words.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

Harley Watson checked the time on her phone before raking her eyes over the heads of the many passerby around her for the umpteenth time. Then she sighed and continued to tap her feet repeatedly against the tiled floor as she waited on the bench at the front of the train station. Her uncle should be here any minute now.

This was not how she wanted to spend her Friday before Easter holiday— being put on a train for two hours headed for London, alone, by her mother who assured her that being away from all the "chaos at home" during her break would be good for her. Plus she would get to spend some time with her dear uncle.

In other words, her uncle would have to be saddled with her while her mother "tried" to work things out with her and Clara's divorce, so she wouldn't be in the way. But everyone knew how that would turn out.

She sighed again, clutching her notebook firmly. It was times like this she wished she wasn't a mute, so she could scream and shout at the both of them— and the world, for that matter.

"Harley!" a familiar voice called out over the crowd. She looked up to see her Uncle John walking towards her with a smile. She stood up just as he reached her, and he pulled her into a strong hug. "Hey, sweetheart. My, you've grown a lot since I last saw you."

They pulled apart, and Harley could see that he's changed quite a bit since she last saw him as well. The lines on his face were more prominent, making him look more stern, yet tired at the same time, and his dirty blonde hair had grown out a bit from his military-like buzz since he was invalidated from Afghanistan.

God, she's missed him.

"So, you're doing alright? Was the train ride okay?" he asked her.

She nodded.

He smiled warmly at her. "Good."

Harley managed a smile in return, feeling her heart lift in her chest a bit. Despite not seeing him very much, she loved John more than any other member of her extended family. He was the only one who didn't have a problem with her silence, never urged her to speak. He just went with it.

He reached down and picked up her suitcase. "Is this all you have?" he asked her, glancing around to see if there was anything else she had brought with her.

She adjusted the strap of her blue knapsack and nodded. His smile faded just a little before he replied, "Alright, then. Come on, let's go," and started to lead her out of the train station to hail a cab. She didn't see how not having a lot of belongings would concern him; she was only staying for two weeks. Two long weeks.

He finally got a cab, placed her suitcase into the trunk, and they were on their way.

John lived in a flat in downtown London, so the ride was going to take about an hour to get there. It gave them more alone time to get caught up properly.

"So how are things? How's school?" he asked her.

Wasting no time, she opened her notebook, took out a mechanical pencil, and started writing. John waited patiently until she finished up and gave it to him to read:

 _Things are okay, I guess. School's surprisingly getting better for me, though, if you can believe it._

He smiled. "Good. That's good. I'm glad school's easier for you now."

She nodded in agreement as he gave her notebook back.

"And how's your mother?"

At this, she bit her lip uncertainly, unsure whether to say she was doing fine, or just tell the truth. After a moment of considering, she wrote down what she thought was necessary to say, taking longer than last time. Then she tentatively gave it to her uncle.

 _Not so good, to be honest. I think the impact of the divorce is finally taking its toll on her. It's been hard lately._

John's warm expression slowly disappeared as he read her response, replaced with a look of concern and anger. He could clearly see the meaning behind Harley's words, what she wasn't writing but implying. But he wasn't upset with her. It was her mother— his sister, Harriet "Harry" Watson. He never approved of her drinking habits, especially when it involved Harley. The first time it became a major issue was when they found out about Harley's condition when she was six years old. And now it was because of all the fighting between her and Clara. And finally, the divorce, like Harley wrote. That would explain why Harley had arrived to London all by herself, with only a medium-sized suitcase and a backpack. John's nose flared at the thought. Harry had some nerve doing that, considering.

But deep down, John was glad Harry was sending Harley away to him for the holiday. At least now, his niece wouldn't have to be stuck in the middle of all of his sister's drama, even if it was just for a little while. As if she had enough issues already.

"And what about you? Are you holding up okay?" John asked her.

Harley decided not to go into any detail this time, and instead just nodded and turned away to look out her window. John took that as a sign that she didn't want to "talk" about it anymore, and left her alone, but he couldn't help but be concerned for her. After all, her parents were splitting up. That can be rough for any kid to go through, and it was obviously bothering her more than she let on. However, he knew that when she was ready, she'll tell him, to say the least.

A little while later, John's phone vibrated from his pocket. Pulling it out, he looked down at it briefly before rolling his eyes and placing it back in his pocket. Then he noticed Harley staring at him questioningly. "That was a text from my flatmate," he explained. "He wants to know what's taking so long."

She raised an eyebrow. She quickly scrawled on her paper: _The flatmate you talk about on your blog? Sherlock Holmes, is it?_

John laughed humorlessly. "Your mother's been showing you my blog. Figures," he mumbled before saying in a normal tone, "Yes, the very same."

 _Is he really how you described him?_

"Pretty much, yeah."

Harley just stared at him, waiting for him to elaborate more on that. He sighed. "Well, if you're staying at Baker Street, I suppose I should warn you…"

And so he told her about how he met his flatmate in details he didn't explain on his blog, about the first case they went on together, about Sherlock's job, his personality, his ability to read people— or deduce, as he likes to call it— and his tendency to be arrogant and rude most of the time. But he was definitely not boring.

"So just to give you a heads up," John said, "try not to be _too_ offended when you meet him."

 _Uh, not too offended? How does that even work?_ she thought, but in the end she just nodded, and the subject was dropped for now.

Sometime later, the cab finally made its way to Baker Street.

"We're here," John said as the cab pulled up outside an old building that was wedged between another small apartment complex and a Speedy's Café. A black door with a bronze door knocker and flat number 221B bolted on it stood in the center of the building, waiting for them. It looked nice and quaint to Harley, so different from her rundown house just outside the city.

As she was helping John get her case from the trunk, she thought she saw movement from one of the second floor windows out of the corner of her eye. But when she turned her head to look properly, nothing was there. She arched her eyebrow suspiciously, but she was pulled out of her observation by John, handing her a house key. "You go on inside. I'll just pay the cabbie real quick."

She nodded and did what she was told, taking her bag with her. When she unlocked the door and stepped in, someone was just coming down the stairs to meet her. It was a petite, elderly woman with short, brownish-grey hair and wearing a nice, purple dress. She gave the girl a big, sweet smile and wrapped her in a hug, taking Harley by complete surprise before she hesitantly hugged her back.

"Hello, dearie!" the woman greeted her kindly, "It's so good to finally meet the famous niece John talks so much about."

Harley's cheeks turned a little pink; she was glad the lady couldn't see her face at the time. She didn't think John talked that much about her, considering they only saw each other a certain amount of times a year before he was drafted.

The woman pulled away just as John came in. "You didn't tell me she was _this_ pretty, John. Shame on you."

 _Oh, God,_ she thought in dismay. She gave John a deadpan look, and he chuckled.

"Harley, this is my landlady, Mrs. Hudson. Mrs. Hudson, Harley," he introduced.

"Pleasure to meet you, Harley. Happy to have you here," said Mrs. Hudson warmly.

Harley gave a nod with a little smile in greeting. Then she looked at John and pointed up the stairs questioningly. John understood what she was asking and answered, "Yes, your room will be upstairs next to mine."

"Your uncle's worked so hard to clean it up for you," Mrs. Hudson added.

"Shall we go on up?" John asked, earning a nod from Harley.

Before they reached the stairs, though, Mrs. Hudson said, "If you ever need anything, I'll be just down here. Give me a shout— Oh! I- I mean, come and see me. Oh, dear…" Mrs. Hudson blushed furiously, thinking she had said something terribly offensive.

But Harley didn't mind. In fact, she was used to it. With a small smile, she scribbled something on her paper, tore it off, and gave it to the landlady.

 _Thank you._

Mrs. Hudson became relieved and grinned at Harley. "You're very welcome, love."

And so she and John walked up the flight of stairs. They passed the second floor, the door going into the living room was closed, but the one on the side leading to the kitchen was not, allowing her to see the kitchen area, which consisted of your everyday cooking needs— except for the table in the center that was cluttered with science lab equipment and papers.

If John hadn't told her already, she'd have thought he was flat-sharing with Bill Nye the Science Guy.

They continued up the steps until they reached the top floor. John opened one of the doors and led her into her bedroom. It was painted a dull green with some brown decorations here and there. The bed was set against the other side of the wall next to the dresser, with a floral quilt and white pillows, the mattress itself light and squishy.

She put down her suitcase so she could write: _I love it._

John smiled appreciatively. "Good. Because if not, you'd still have to sleep here."

She rolled her eyes and shoved him playfully, earning a laugh out of him.

"Well, I'll leave you to get settled, then. Once you're done, come down to the living room, and we'll have takeout for dinner. How's Chinese sound?"

She did the universal _okay_ sign, and he grinned. "Great."

He was just turning to leave, but Harley stopped him. She gave him a quick, tight hug. Shocked, but touched, he hugged her back and planted a kiss on her forehead. "Yeah, I've missed you too." They pulled apart. "Alright, see you then."

With that, he left her alone to unpack. Harley's gaze shifted around the room before landing back to her bed. With a collective sigh, she took off her backpack and started to unload everything, starting with her clothes. Once all that was taken care of several minutes later, she sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled out her phone. She turned it on and looked at it. No texts from either of her parents in the last sixteen hours.

Harley felt her stomach grow heavy, mixed emotions running through her; disappointment, but also a bit of relief. She supposed she should've figured, but still, it would've been nice to get at least a text from them, asking her if she made it okay. She guessed that was too much to ask now.

She stood up and went to place her phone on the small table next to her bed. As she did so, though, she felt another presence, like she was being watched. She froze for a moment, then, turning slowly, she faced the open doorway, and her eyes widened upon seeing a person standing there, and it wasn't John or Mrs. Hudson. It was a tall, thin man with pale skin, dark, wavy locks of hair, and a narrow face with prominent cheek bones. He wore a blue dressing gown over a grey t-shirt and trousers, like he had just rolled out of bed. Perhaps he had.

 _This must be John's flatmate,_ she thought as her nerves calmed down, but just a little bit. The man was just standing there in the doorway, staring at her. What was he doing? And how long had he been standing there?

Not long after she turned to face him the man smirked slightly. He walked into her room, hands behind his back. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," he said casually, his deep voice not sounding all that apologetic.

She swallowed as he came closer. If she wasn't a mute, she'd probably still be rendered speechless. Something about the way he looked at her with those bluish-green eyes unsettled her, like he was trying to uncover every aspect of her— and was most likely succeeding, if what John had told her was true.

He soon approached her, practically towering over her. "You must be Harley, John Watson's niece." He smirked in amusement. "I see his fascination for jumpers runs in the family."

She glanced down at the oversized blue jumper that practically smothered her upper body, and couldn't help but smile slightly at his meaning, allowing her to relax a little. She and John do tend to wear jumpers a lot. Heck, just today, he wore his notorious oatmeal-colored one when we went to pick her up. She shrugged as if to say, _Yeah, but what can you do?_

"Sherlock Holmes," he introduced himself as he reached out for a handshake, in which she obliged to after a moment's hesitation. Well, at least he was courteous.

"Ah, yes," he tisked when she didn't respond verbally. "John has informed me that you _don't_ speak."

She tensed up again as his eyes skimmed up and down her body, like he was scanning her. Exactly how much did John tell him about her anyway? It probably didn't matter anymore, the way he was looking at her.

After an intense pause, he opened his mouth. _Uh oh, here we go…_

"John requests that you come down to the living room, since you're clearly finished with your unpacking." And with that, he turned to leave.

Harley frowned at his retreating back, puzzled. _Wait, what? That's it? He's got nothing else to say to me? After all John said about him?_

She looked down at her bed and blinked. Maybe John was just over exaggerating?

"Oh, and Miss Harley?"

She looked back up at him curiously.

"I'm sure your mother will contact you sooner or later. No need to fret." He winked at her and left the room, not seeing the look of surprise on her face as he headed down the stairs. She stared ahead dazedly for a full minute.

 _Did he just….What just happened?_

* * *

 **A/N- Aaaaannnnd, done. First chapter finished. Sorry if it comes off a bit...I don't know...shaky, I guess? Hopefully, whatever flaws it has now will be improved later on. Feel free to review/follow/fave/partyallnight. Or do nothing. There's that too...**

 **Also beware: Next few chapters or so won't go into the main plot of the series yet, as I want to give Harley more time to interact with and get to know the main characters more. Plus, I'll give you more insight to Harley's character, why she is the way she is. I want to ease you guys into it like a nice hot bath...and that probably sounded creepy, didn't it?**

 **Speaking of creepy, I just want to say now: No, I will NOT write in any romances unless its canon (such as John/Mary later on). As an asexual, I suck at writing anything romance anyways. Whatever crazy schizo happens, it's familial/platonic all the way. So if you're worried about that, worry no more. (Besides, Harley's twelve here. Gross. WTF is wrong with you?)**


	2. Getting Acquainted

**A/N- Whoa! What the flux capacitor? First chapter and already 1 fave, 2 follows, and a review on top? Dammit, story! I leave you alone for five minutes!**

 **Seriously, though. Thank you so very much for reading, and actually being crazy enough to like it. It means a whole lot, and it gave me the confidence to continue.**

 **This chapter focuses mostly on Sherlock and what he thinks of all of this, and how he and Harley interact with each other (and we get a little more insight to Harley's character). Hopefully, it's not too chaotic. Don't worry, it's still written in third-person point of view, just switched focus on characters. I plan on doing that between chapters every now and then.**

 **Disclaimer: I only own my OC.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

It was an excruciatingly dull day for Sherlock. No clients. No calls from Lestrade informing him of a case even remotely interesting. Nothing. He had no idea what was wrong with the criminal class today. Did they decide to take the day off? He thought for sure he was going to die of boredom.

And then John Watson arrived with his niece.

Harley Watson; uncommon name in this generation. Nickname for Harleen, perhaps? Most likely not, otherwise John would have said so among the other things he's said about her.

John usually only talked about family members of his when it was brought up by accident, a prime example being the first case they went on together, when Sherlock deduced John's relationship with Harry from his hand-me-down phone (of course, he thought Harry was a "he" at the time, but that's not important). And when he did talk of his sister, it was in a strained manner.

But he hardly talked ill of his niece.

The first time he mentioned her, it was during a conversation about his sister's drinking, when he subtly commented, "She's tried to give it up several times for Harley, but in the end, she just goes right back to it."

At first, Sherlock was confused. Who was Harley?

That was when John told him about Harry's daughter; how before she met Clara, she wanted a child and had a sperm donated to her, and eventually gave birth to Harley twelve years ago.

Sherlock had noticed the wistful smile on John's face whenever he talked about Harley. He obviously loved her like she was his own. He talked about how when she was younger and he visited, she was always happy to see him, and drew pictures for him and gave him some of her toys to play with. She had good grades in her school, particularly math, and she loved to read and write. She was a good kid.

Except for one little thing.

She was a mute.

John explained that she's always been a quiet child. Even with her own family, she never talked much. At first, they thought she was just really shy, and she'd grow out of it. But as she got older, it seemed to get worse and worse. Not only would she hardly talk, she became more and more secluded, like she was slowly retreating into herself. Then, one day, she just stopped speaking altogether. She hardly even smiled anymore. Harry sent her to all kinds of doctors, psychiatrists, and speech therapists to see what was wrong with her; they wondered if she had autism, Asperger's, or if it was a medical issue- that something happened to her vocal chords. All results came back negative. It seemed that she just didn't like talking— though a few claimed she had some kind of social anxiety disorder; it seemed the only logical explanation. So Harry and Clara gave up on trying to fix her, and simply let her be (though, in John's opinion, it was because it cost too much money that could've been spent on more alcohol for Harry).

"We still don't know why she's like this," John had said gravely. "It's like she just...drifted away or something."

 _Odd,_ was Sherlock's only thought on the matter, and he didn't recall it again. Until about a month into him and John moving in together. Harry had been contacting John for quite some time. Her and Clara's divorce was about to be complete. He didn't know all of the details of their conversations, but from what he understood, it wasn't going over well with them. _Sentiment_ , he suspected.

He didn't expect John to announce that Harley was going to be visiting him while she was on Easter break while things blow over. John seemed a bit hesitant on telling him, unsure exactly what he thought of children in general— considering he hardly even liked adults' company to begin with.

"If you could just try to…you know, not be yourself so much…" John told him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes with indignation. "For God's sakes, John. Just so long as she doesn't get in the way of my work, I couldn't care less," he said indifferently.

"Well, I hardly think that'll be a problem. She, well, she mostly keeps to herself."

"Then there's nothing to worry about. Honestly, John."

It wasn't that he disliked children; he simply didn't care much for them. At least when it came to intelligence, they just didn't know any better. Adults, on the other hand, did, which was far more annoying.

And besides, she can't even speak. So that marks off chances of her engaging in any meaningless chatter of the sort. She was already off to a good start.

Mrs. Hudson was up in the sitting room with him when John returned with his niece from the train station. She saw them pulling up at 221B through the window.

"Oh, they're here!" she exclaimed before heading out of the room to meet them, closing the door in the process.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his landlady's overexcitement. He didn't understand what all the fuss was about. She was only visiting for the holiday.

Although, a small part of him was curious about her. He mostly wondered if she was like John, in some ways.

Letting his curiosity get the best of him for the moment, he got up from his chair and went to the window, looking down in time to see his flatmate getting a suitcase out of the trunk of the cab, assisted by a head of short, dirty blond hair with a black headband in it— the same hair color as John's. Most of her body was blocked by John, so Sherlock couldn't get a proper reading off of her from where he was seeing her. He turned away from the window just as she was about to look up at him, and he went to lie down on the couch in his usual thinking position. He closed his eyes as he heard the door downstairs open. He strained his ears, trying to listen. There was a short, muffled conversation between John and Mrs. Hudson. No new voice. And then there was the sound of John coming up the stairs, followed by a new pair of footsteps. They were unlike John's, which were heavy from his boots. No, the other footsteps were lighter. Trainers.

They continued up the stairs until they stopped at the bedrooms. John's voice spoke to the girl, and then his footsteps were heard coming back down the steps. Then he entered the living room.

"What took you so long?" Sherlock asked, not looking at him.

John glared at him. "Do you have any idea how long it is from here to the train station?"

"Irrelevant."

John rolled his eyes, but didn't argue about it anymore, seeing as it was pointless. "So, Harley's just unpacking, and will be down soon. And when she does…" he trailed off in a warning tone.

"Yes, yes," Sherlock drawled. "You told me yesterday. No need to repeat it."

"Are you sure?"

Sherlock only groaned in response. Luckily, John left to the kitchen area to make some tea, leaving him alone to listen to the sound of the girl's small footsteps pattering across the room above him while she unpacked. Several minutes later the pattering stopped, followed instead by the faint sound of bed springs— she had sat down on the bed. She was finished.

That was when Sherlock jumped off the couch, snuck his way out of the room, and up the stairs. He'd much rather meet her and make his observations without John hovering around both of them, thank you very much. He stalked towards the open doorway and looked in to see the young girl wearing jeans, black converse shoes, and a blue jumper at least one size too large for her. Sherlock couldn't help but smirk at the sight; of course, a relative of John would wear a jumper. However, he noticed that not only was her jumper too big, it was old and worn, with a few small holes here and there. Probably a favorite of hers that she refused to get rid of. Her jeans were worn and faded as well.

She was sitting on the bed, as he had suspected. She was looking down at her phone with a rather conflicted expression. She was anticipating a message, most likely from her mother. But she hasn't gotten one yet. Obviously.

The girl must've sensed his presence, because as she stood up and put down her phone, her body suddenly stiffened. She turned to face him and her eyes widened, startled. He smirked slightly and apologized as he entered the room. She said nothing, watching him as he approached her with round eyes. They weren't blue like John's, so she must've inherited them from her mother, or perhaps her unidentified father. They were gray, but not the dull kind, more like storm clouds; filled with weariness from the long ride here. He could see how if she got angry, they would come across as intimidating to some people, but her expression at the moment ruined that image. She looked…scared? Nervous? Of him? John must have told her about him on the way over.

He made a comment about her jumper, hoping to break the ice a bit, and it worked, but just a little bit. She shrugged lightly. The corner of her lips twitched up into a tentative smile, like she had to put actual effort into it even though she really wanted to. _Interesting_ , he mused before introducing himself and shaking her hand. Her grip was surprisingly firm. She was taught to always have a strong grip when shaking hands, despite her uneasiness.

When she didn't respond again, he used that as a chance to observe her. Words spilled off of her as he studied her in his mind. The most obvious deductions came first.

 _Twelve years old. Four foot eleven inches. Raised by two mothers. No father figure in the picture save John. No pets. Middle class family that looks for cheap commendations, explaining her worn-down clothes and scent of cheap shampoo in her hair. Secondary school. Reader. Writer. Left handed. Intelligent. Resourceful. Introvert. Misanthropic. No friends. Bullied. No trace of make-up; no desire to please or make an impression._

And finally: _Selective mutism._

He snapped out of his thoughts to see that she had grown tense again. She must be aware of what he was doing. When he opened his mouth to speak, she visibly braced herself. What all did John tell her about him?

Instead, he merely told her to come down when she was ready, then turned to leave. Why didn't he tell her everything he knew about her then, like almost every other time he met someone? He wasn't so sure himself at the time. Perhaps because he didn't want to scare off the only family member that John actually liked. Yes, that had to be it.

However, he just couldn't resist walking away leaving some kind of impression. He turned back and assured her about her mother contacting her, then properly made his leave, not sticking around in time to see her reaction.

* * *

Sherlock lay back on the couch, his eyes closed and his hands up in a prayer-like position— his usual thinking pose. John was still in the kitchen, making tea.

Shortly after returning, his ears picked up the faint sound of footsteps coming down the stairs. The steps made it into the sitting room, but Sherlock didn't open his eyes, awaiting a reaction. The steps paused for a just a moment a few feet into the room, until they continued cautiously across the room, past him, and toward the other side. At this, he cracked one eye open and shifted quietly to get a better look. Then he remained still, hoping to examine her without her noticing.

Harley was standing at the window, looking out at the view of Baker Street to the London skyline and then down at the people passing below. She had a spiral-bound, wide-ruled notebook tucked under one arm with a black marker and a mechanical pencil clipped on the cover.

 _Used to communicate when she needs to,_ he deduced.

Her gaze moved to his violin on the cluttered desk next to her. She stared at it inquisitively but didn't make a move to touch it.

 _Has a clear respect for personal belongings and space._

She soon moved from the window area to the opposite side of the room from him. Her eyes lingered on the many books on the ceiling-high bookshelf, as though wondering how many of them she's already read, and if she had the time to read all of the ones she hasn't read if she could. Then she made her way to the fireplace where she saw the pile of bills stabbed with a Swiss-army knife in the wood of the mantel, an eyebrow slightly raised in question.

Sherlock held his breath when she caught sight of his skull resting in its usual place on the mantel. She stepped closer, not taking her eyes off it. Her head tilted to the side a bit as she studied it curiously, but other than that didn't react at all.

"You don't seem disturbed by the skull," he spoke his observation aloud.

Her eyes flickered to him, as if surprised that he was talking to her, then back at the skull. After an awkward pause, to which she seemed to consider something and then decided to take a chance, she opened her notebook and scribbled quickly on the first page with her marker. Then she held it up for him to read:

 _Why would I be?_

He immediately answered, "It's the common response amongst most people. They find skulls unsettling for some reason."

She frowned at this, then flipped over a clean page and wrote down something else:

 _That sounds rather silly, if you ask me. After all, we all have at least one._

Sherlock blinked at the message, then looked up at her with an amused smirk. "Well, you're not wrong there. But apparently, one is their only limit." He found it quite easy to converse with her even though she didn't talk. She wrote fast. Her grammar was also very good, he noticed. It had to be, of course, since it was her only way of expressing herself.

The sides of her mouth twitched a little— another attempt at smiling— and she went to sit down across from him, seeming to have loosened up a little more now that she and he were talking— in a sense, that is. She wrote some more, gesturing back to the skull:

 _Does he/she have a name? If so, what is it?_

"Billy," he answered. "His name is Billy. An old friend of mine. Well, I say friend…"

She looked back at the skull, Billy, and narrowed her eyes, thinking hard about something. Then she shook her head.

"What?"

It took her a little longer to write down her response:

 _Sorry. It's just that 'Alas, poor_ Billy _! I knew him well,' doesn't sound quite as poetic as I thought._

"No, no it doesn't," he said with a small chuckle. For a mute, she had quite a sense of humor.

Before anything else was said or written, John came in from the kitchen. "What'd you say, Sherlock?" Then he started at the sight of Harley— sitting with Sherlock, mind. "Oh, Harley…you've come down. Um, settled in well, then?"

She nodded once.

"Good." His eyes flicked between her and Sherlock. "I see you two have already met."

"Brilliant observation, John. You're getting better," Sherlock said sardonically.

John shot him an annoyed look, then back at Harley in concern. But when he saw that she wasn't bothered one bit, he relaxed a little. "I'm about to order take away. Come look at the menu, so you can show me what you want. Same order as last time for you, Sherlock?"

"Very well," he replied offhandedly, watching Harley get up and follow John into the kitchen.

While they were gone, he took the chance to get out his pack of nicotine patches. He only settled for one this time, though, and pressed it to his right arm. Harley returned once he pulled down his sleeve, concealing it. She sat down in the chair John usually sat in, taking the Union Jack flag and placing it on her lap. Sherlock decided to sit in his own chair straight across from her this time.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound that could be heard was John ordering the food over the phone. Harley was too busy staring at the bookshelf again to notice, her gray eyes clouded with hidden longing.

"You may read those books if you like," Sherlock spoke up, bringing her attention back to him. "They're not off limits, you know."

She gave him a look that clearly said, _Really?!_

"You're obviously an avid reader. It's your way of coping with your problems— your way of escape— despite not having as many opportunities to read the books you want to as much as you'd like. And you know how to properly care for them. I don't mind, as long as you put them back in the same condition you found them."

At first she just looked at him in awe, like she almost couldn't believe he knew that, but she soon snapped out of it and nodded eagerly in promise and thanks. Then she scrawled:

 _Uncle John told me that you are a consulting detective._

"Yes, the only one in the world, actually; I invented the job. Has he told you what that is?"

 _The police come to you when they need help with a crime?_

He didn't miss the question mark at the end. "Precisely. And they _always_ need my help."

 _So...it's like freelancing, only more frequently?_

He snorted at her description. "You could say that, yes."

 _What about private cases? Do people who are not in the police force come to you?_

"On occasion; I only take cases if they're interesting enough. That goes for police investigations as well."

After pausing a moment, she wrote with a diffident hand:

 _That's amazing, how you have your own, unique job with your own rules; one that you like to do AND that you're good at. I hope my career is like that one day._

Sherlock read it slowly, then reread it to make sure he didn't misinterpret it. He looked up at her, taken aback. "You…you think so?"

She only nodded in response that time with an unsure expression— that perhaps she had been wrong to express that from the way he was looking at her.

Sherlock didn't say anything else about it. He rested his hands under his chin in his usual thinking manner, getting lost in his own thoughts. This quiet girl had just praised him and his work. She wasn't even appalled or offended when he voiced his presumption regarding her fascination of books— whereas most other people would've told him to piss off and mind his own business. In fact, she almost said— well, _wrote_ — the same thing John had said when they first met. _Amazing._ That was the word they used.

 _Interesting,_ he thought, not for the first time, about the young Watson.

* * *

 **A/N- Second chapter finished! *sings along to chorus of "Girl on Fire"***

 **I once read somewhere that Gordon Ramsay, despite his bat-shit crazy reputation, actually gets along really well with kids. Because even _he_ understands that when kids make a mistake, they are willing to learn from it, and thus can be taught for improvement. I'm not sure if this is 100% accurate (I'm sure as hell not gonna ask him), but I really like that idea. It got me wondering if Sherlock was the same way in a sense. He got along good with Archie in "The Sign of Three", for example. (It's also one of the reasons I'm excited to see his reaction to Baby Girl Watson in series 4)**

 **That's basically what I'm trying to do here with Sherlock. I hope I'm doing okay.** **Sorry if he comes across as OOC to anyone. But let's be honest, do any of us REALLY have a perfect understanding of what goes on inside that head of his? We fanfic writers pretty much just have to do the best we can.**

 **So yeah, headcanon that Sherlock gets on better with kids than adults (even though he won't admit it): ACCEPTED AND LOGGED INTO MIND PALACE.**


	3. Crap Telly and Take Out

**A/N- Pop quiz, kiddies! What's worse than waking up in the middle of the night with a stomach virus?**

 **Answer: FREAKING NOTHING**

 **Being sick sucks. 'Nuff said. But that's not gonna stop me from uploading this mother out.**

 **Disclaimer: I only own my OC...and this bacteria residing in my system for the time being.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

It didn't take long for to the take-away to arrive (it was from a Chinese restaurant only a block over), but it still seemed like a long time to Harley. After expressing to Sherlock what she thought about his profession, he put his hands up in a prayer-like pose, his eyes drifting until it was evident that he was off in his own little world, but his line of vision was still pointed directly at her, so it was like he was gazing right into her soul.

It was really awkward.

Keeping her eyes fixed on him, she very slowly rose from the chair and stepped to the side. His own eyes didn't even waver. Wow, he was really gone, wasn't he?

She decided that it was best to just leave him alone with his thoughts for the time being, and quietly made her way to the bookshelf, already having the first book she wanted to read picked out in her mind. Tipping up on her toes, she pulled out a big book titled, _Philosophy: 100 Essential Thinkers_. She sat down at one end of the couch and opened to the introduction page, beginning to read.

Shortly after, John returned to the living room, having finished the order, and also carrying in three cups of tea for them. He walked in and grinned at the sight. "Already raiding the bookshelf, are you?"

She glanced up at him and gave the slightest of smiles, then back to the book.

He chuckled, placing a cup down on the side table next to Sherlock, and giving her the other one. She nodded in thanks and took a sip, letting the hot liquid warm her up and relieve her of the day's stress. She sighed softly.

John went to the desk and opened up his laptop, intent on updating his blog a bit more, while Harley went back to reading, and Sherlock did…whatever it was he was doing. They all fell into a silence, but it wasn't uncomfortable. John knew Harley wasn't much of a conversationalist, and not just because of the mutism, and he won't even mention Sherlock when he was like this. The detective did warn him the day they met: _Sometimes I don't talk for days on end._ So it was pretty much to be expected. Besides, it was only her first day there; they'd have plenty of time to converse and do things properly together.

It was like this for several minutes until the doorbell rang; their order had arrived. John got up to answer. The noise seemed to have snapped Sherlock out of his deep state of thought. He blinked a few times at the chair in front of him, confused. He looked around until his eyes landed on Harley. He frowned.

"When did you move? I was just talking to you."

She looked up at him blankly. Not exactly knowing how to answer that, she just shrugged and shook her head.

Luckily, John came back up before Sherlock could say anything else, the smell of hot, freshly cooked Chinese food wafting into the room with him.

Moments later found her sitting with a container of beef lo mein and bending over the coffee table watching television, her book well off to the side so as not to get food on it. John sat beside her with frog's legs and stir fry rice. Sherlock remained in his seat, except now he had his knees tucked up to his chest, his eyes intensely focused on the blaring telly. He had hardly touched his chicken fried rice, too distracted by what he was watching, which was a trivia game show. It didn't take long until he had forgotten his food entirely.

"No, you idiot!" he yelled at the screen. "It's the roman numeral V! You'd know that if you had even a _speck_ of intelligence!"

John nearly choked on his food from laughing, and Harley just blinked at him.

"I introduced him to this show a couple of weeks ago; not sure if it's the best decision I ever made or the worst," John whispered to her while Sherlock continued to shout and insult every contestant who got an answer wrong.

Harley raised an eyebrow and smiled slightly at the sight. She had seen guys go crazy over sports tournaments, but not brain games. She would silently try to answer most of the questions herself, but there were only a few categories she knew fairly well, like mathematics and English literature. But Sherlock seemed to know…well, pretty much everything. At least, the ones he deemed were necessary to know. When she looked through the books earlier, she came across a rather curious stack of volumes at the edge of the desk. There was a book teaching about the chemical formulas of some of the world's deadliest poisons, one about different types of writing ink, and a book on how to turn any background item into a fatal weapon. And those were just to name a few of the strange books. They all looked interesting, even though she didn't know when any of that information would come in handy. Of course, with a job like a detective, solving crimes, she figured that was why he studied them: in case he did need all that knowledge someday.

She had snuck a look at him while he was engrossed with the show, really looking at him. His angular-looking body, dark hair, pale skin, bright eyes, but a deep, sophisticated voice. He was pretty much the complete opposite of John. What a difference— not just in looks, though, but in personality too, based on what she had seen today. It wasn't bad, though. Just different.

She couldn't help but wonder what _she_ looked like to _him_ , what he really thought of her. What was that he said about her reading habits? _It's your way of coping with your problems— your way of escape._

Yeah. He's not wrong about that.

But she doubted he said it to be cruel or anything. After all, he did say she could read some of his books. He was just stating what he saw, and what he saw, he observed.

It really was amazing, to see things no one else could.

A while later, when Harley had finished as much as she could eat, she decided to turn in for the night. Grabbing the book she was reading, she kissed her uncle's cheek goodnight and headed up to her room, not noticing Sherlock glancing at her as she did so. Once in her room, the door closed this time, she picked up her phone and found that she had gotten a text from Harry sometime earlier— just like Sherlock predicted— which only consisted of one sentence:

 **Did you have a safe trip?**

Harley blinked down at the message. Well, at least she was concerned about her safety, right?

She typed out a message, then erased it, then rewrote it again with more certainty:

 **Made it okay. John is well.**

 _Since you didn't bother to ask,_ she wanted to add, but refrained from doing so as she sent the last message:

 **Good night.**

Not really expecting a reply, she turned off her phone and put it away. She changed into her pajamas and got into bed, but didn't go to sleep immediately. She decided to read her book for another hour— or at least until she couldn't stay awake any longer. Sometime into the night, she heard footsteps from outside her room, then the sound of a door closing. John must have gone to bed. She continued to read until she couldn't hold back the tiredness of her day any longer. As she dozed off, she could've sworn she heard the sound of a violin being played somewhere not far off, but she was too tired to care, finally drifting into sleep.

* * *

 **A/N- Wow. This chapter was like, 1,000 words shorter than the previous ones. Sorry about how utterly short it is. I felt this was where to wrap up Harley's first evening at Baker Street. But don't worry, next chapter will be juicier. More shenanigans going on at 221B, and then we finally, FINALLY, get into the main storyline.**

 **Laterz!**

 **P.S. I really do have a book titled _Philosophy: 100 Essential Thinkers_. It's an inspiring read that you can find at Barnes and Noble.**

 **P.P.S. My parents and I act like Sherlock when we watch Jeopardy together. It brings us closer as a family. XD**


	4. The Blind Banker- And So It Begins

**A/N- Still sick with a stomach virus, but I'm slowly recovering.**

 **This is the last completed chapter I have so far. The next one is the one I'm still currently working on. That means the chapters aren't going to pop up like breeding rabbits from now on. What? You thought I just wrote inordinarily fast? HAHAHAHAHA you're hilarious!**

 **Disclaimer: I only own my OC. If I owned Sherlock, I'd immediately start filming a SuperWhoLock crossover episode.**

 **Enjoy the craziness!**

* * *

It took Harley a few days to get used to the usual rituals that went down at her uncle's flat. Well, she wouldn't say "get used to" per se— or even go as far as to call the rituals there "usual." More like, she learned to not be so surprised by the strangeness that was 221B Baker Street.

Harley's sleeping pattern was still running on school-time then, so she awoke earlier than she needed to. She was usually up before her uncle; he claimed he was still looking for a job, knowing he can't live by military pension forever.

However, her getting up so early might be because of a certain flatmate. She swore, the guy never slept. And if he did, it probably wasn't for very long. Every time she went down stairs, he was either in the living room pacing around, mumbling quickly to himself about something she couldn't quite understand, sometimes he'd be looking through many papers, pictures, and files scattered everywhere. She squinted at one of the files once from a safe enough distance. Case files— unsolved ones.

And other times, much like the day she met him, he would just sit there— either on the couch or his leather chair— just staring off into space, not talking for long periods of time. Not that she minded that or anything. It wasn't like she could talk back if he did.

But that wasn't the only place he'd be. She'd often find him in the kitchen peering into his microscope. The kitchen, she realized, was hardly used for its intended purpose. In fact, there was hardly even any food (which explains why they always ordered take-out for meals or Mrs. Hudson occasionally cooked for them). Sherlock dominated it as his own personal chemistry lab, with what equipment and specimens he could get away with having.

And she was surprised at what he got away with having in his kitchen. One morning, she had walked into the kitchen while he was mixing two chemicals together in a beaker, making her way to the bathroom. He suddenly turned to her upon hearing her entrance. "Ah, Harley. Would you mind getting something out of the fridge for me? I'm a bit occupied at the moment. It's in a container on the bottom shelf, just to the left. You can't miss it."

Not thinking much of it, she simply nodded and went to do so— though, she noted the fact that this was the most he'd spoken to her since the first day, let alone requested her assistance for something. When she opened the fridge, however, she was greeted by an odor she only smelt when she had to dissect a frog in school, except this time the smell was way more potent. She coughed a few times, then covered her nose with one arm as she scanned the inside. The dimly lit fridge made everything look shadowy, but if she wasn't mistaken, she was looking at a container full of human fingers.

 _Well...that explains the smell,_ she thought before quickly grabbing the Tupperware and closing the door, relieving her of the foul scent. She breathed in relief as she went over and placed the container carefully on the table so as not to spill any of the contents.

"Thank you. I'm trying to see how a certain type of acid effects their decomposition," he said casually, like keeping human body parts in the kitchen was normal.

She raised her eyebrows as he carefully took out one of the fingers and put it on a petri dish. Then she went and got a glass of water, and sat down in the chair across from him to watch.

Sherlock glanced up at her wordlessly, and she gave him a look that said, _Do you mind?_ as she took a sip of water.

He shook his head and leaned down as he slowly poured the chemical onto the finger. At first, nothing happened. Then a moment later there was a sizzling noise. Harley leaned forward to see better. The finger bubbled up a bit until the skin started to peel off and be eaten away, the smell of burning flesh filling the air.

 _Nasty…but kind of cool,_ she thought. It was like watching a snake eat a rat; gruesome, but intriguing enough to where you can't take your eyes off it.

"Hmm, interesting," the detective hummed to himself as he wrote down the results. Not wanting to feel like she was hanging over his shoulder, she quietly left the room for him to continue experimenting.

And that was just _one_ of the strange things she's seen him do in the kitchen. She once found a jar of eyeballs in the microwave. She had no idea why, though, and closed the microwave door quickly, feeling like the eyeballs were staring right at her.

Sometimes, though— usually in the early afternoons— he wouldn't be in the flat at all until later that evening. She was surprised when she and John came back from touring central London the second day and he was gone. John told her that he often goes to Scotland Yard to solve cases if they're interesting enough, or go to the morgue at St. Bart's hospital to go over a body— that was also where he got the body parts, she realized. And sometimes, John would help him with his cases too, taking on the unofficial role as his "blogger".

Also, as it turned out, she _did_ hear a violin in the late hours of her first night, because that was him. He played on his violin when he was thinking, no matter what time of the day it was. It seemed to only happen at night, though, as she's yet to see him playing on it with her own eyes.

But she always heard him. When he played again the second night, she simply lay there in her bed and listened. Sometimes, he would play soft and sweet, other times loud and empowering, but no matter what, he always played beautifully.

Yep, Sherlock Holmes was quite the character.

She didn't think that during her stay, she'd end up getting roped into some of the craziness that surrounded him. But, when you're residing within the same vicinity as him, it's pretty much bound to happen.

And it began on her fourth day at Baker Street.

* * *

It started out normal enough. She decided to accompany John to the store for groceries that morning, giving her an excuse to leave the flat and spend time with John. Plus, they needed food…desperately.

Too bad the chip-and-PIN machine had other ideas.

"Unexpected item in bagging area. Please try again," an automated voice droned out of the self-service checkout machine as they tried to check out their items. John cursed under his breath, and Harley was tempted to write down, _Language, dear Uncle_ , but this was John Watson she was writing to.

John picked up lettuce in a plastic bag and slowly ran it over the scanner so it could read the bar code better.

"Item not scanned. Please try again," the automated voice said. Was it just her, or did the machine sound louder and more obnoxious that time?

Apparently, John thought so too.

"Do you think you can keep your voice down?" he growled at the machine, clearly getting more and more agitated as he continued to scan their supplies.

 _Oh, God, people are staring now,_ Harley thought with dismay when she noticed the other people in line behind them, as well as a few people passing by, were giving them odd looks. The man directly behind them shuffled his feet with a look that just screamed, _Hurry the hell up._

John _finally_ got all the items scanned and put in the bags. He inserted his debit card and typed in his PIN number.

Wait for it…

"Card not authorized. Please use alternative method of payment," said the automated voice in all its obnoxious glory.

This time, John couldn't keep his own voice down. "Yes, all right! I've got it!" he yelled.

Harley was slowly backing away by then.

"Card not authorized. Please use alternative method of payment," the automated voice repeated. If Harley didn't know any better, she'd think the machine was taunting him. The man behind them picked up his carrier basket, knowing full-well that this was going to end soon, while John reached for his back pockets but found he had no other way of paying.

"Got nothing," he grumbled. Then he shook his head in defeat and said, "Right, keep it. Keep that." He pointed at the machine, grabbed Harley's hand, and walked away angrily, leaving behind their shopping and a lot of surprised onlookers.

Needless to say, it was an excruciatingly uncomfortable ride back in silence. And that was saying something.

When they returned to 221B, they found Sherlock in the exact place he was in when they left earlier that morning: in his chair, calmly reading a book.

"You took your time," he said nonchalantly without looking up from the page he was reading.

John stopped in the doorway. Harley, sensing that he was still steaming from his battle against so-called convenient technology, walked away from him and sat down in the other chair by the fireplace— well out of firing range.

"Yeah, we didn't get the shopping," John replied, looking around the flat but not moving.

"What?" Sherlock looked up from his book. "Why not?"

"Because I had a row, in the shop, with a chip-and-PIN machine," he said testily.

"You…you had a row with a machine?" Sherlock's eyes flickered between John and a slightly flustered Harley, as if searching for some clarification.

"Sort of. It sat there and I shouted abuse while Harley watched helplessly. Have you got cash?"

Meanwhile, Harley quietly wrote something in her notebook as John talked. Then, making sure he wasn't looking, she held it up for Sherlock to read, rolling her eyes:

 _And people say_ I'm _the emotionally disturbed one._

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and fought back an amused smile before looking back up at John. "Take my card," he said, inclining his head toward the kitchen table where his wallet lay.

John went to go fetch it, but stopped halfway, turning back towards Sherlock. "You could always go yourself, you know," he ranted, still feeling the need to take out his frustration. "You've been sitting there all morning; you've not even moved since we left."

It only happened for a split second, but Harley caught Sherlock's demeanor change in that instant to a conspiratorial look, like he knew something that they didn't. But it was quickly replaced with his usual bored expression. She raised an eyebrow, wondering what that was about.

"And what about that case you were offered— the Jaria Diamond?" John asked as he picked up the wallet and rummaged through it for a suitable paying card.

"Not interested," Sherlock replied, closing his book with a loud snap. "I sent them a message."

Harley frowned at the sudden ominousness of his behavior. What was he—

She heard a soft metal clank from underneath Sherlock's chair when he shifted in his seat, pulling her gaze down to catch sight of a…curved sword?

 _Oh._

She looked back up at him with a blank face as he kicked the sword further underneath the chair. He winked at her and put a finger to his lips.

It was the "be quiet" gesture that drove her to give him her best _Seriously?_ look. Who did he think he was talking to? Sherlock just smirked at her, then looked back up at John, who was running his hand across the surface of the table, noticing a long, thin mark on it that wasn't there before.

"Ugh, Holmes," John grunted. Sherlock just gave him an innocent look as he turned to leave.

"You coming, Harley?" John asked when he saw she hadn't moved from the chair.

Harley stared at him flatly and held up her notebook, her answer already written down in bold letters:

 _And watch you embarrass us both again? No thank you._

"You could've saved my dignity by just shaking your head, you know," he said drily, but he couldn't help but smile nonetheless. He shook his head before taking off and trudging out of the flat.

As soon as they heard the door close downstairs, Sherlock pulled the sword out from under his chair and got up, heading to his room for safe keeping. Harley watched him go, curious about the story behind his morning while she and John were out. At the same time, though, she didn't want to pry. It seemed it was all taken care of anyway.

While he was in his room, she got up and went to her own room, only to come back with a book she had just finished reading last night to return to the bookshelf in one hand, and in the other an Algebra packet from school that she's wanted to get around to. Sherlock came back in time to see her place the book back on the shelf where she found it.

"Three books in four days," Sherlock mused, mostly to himself. Harley glanced at him. "You're quite persistent."

She only shrugged and went to go sit at the desk, opening up her packet and getting started on the first page— equations with variables.

Sherlock walked around until he was looking over her shoulder, watching as she broke down the first problem until she eventually found the solution with ease and moved on to the second problem.

"They give you homework over the holidays?" he asked.

Harley flinched a little at his voice from right behind her. Recovering a second later, she dragged her notebook over to her and wrote for him to see: _Extra credit._

He frowned, still a bit confused. "Why would you need extra credit? You're obviously exceptional at mathematics. That doesn't make sense."

Harley kept her eyes glued to her paper, feeling her cheeks turn pink. Biting her lip, she wrote down: _I just like math. It keeps me busy._

He seemed to take that as a suitable excuse, and walked away. She sighed and went back to work. _Well, at least he didn't say I was weird or anything like that_ , she thought with relief. It was bad enough she got it from her classmates and even a few of the adults. It was like, _Oh, you're not just a mute and socially awkward? You're also a huge nerd? You are just_ asking _to be made fun of, aren't you!_

Harley understood perfectly well why people would give her a hard time about her speech problem, but she didn't understand what was so wrong with getting good grades and— well, actually _learning stuff_. But nevertheless, the complaints and rumors were heard. Just another one of the many unpleasant things about school. She wouldn't hate it if it wasn't full of ignorant, hormonal lunatics who prey on the small and defenseless for sport.

"I don't suppose you know your uncle's password, do you?" Sherlock's voice snapped her out of her thoughts. She blinked and looked up. He was now sitting across from her with John's sleek, red laptop opened, staring at her expectantly.

What did he want? John's password? She looked away and bit her lip, thinking hard for a minute about what John would most likely use as his passcode. Knowing him, it'd probably be something from his childhood, like a family pet or something.

That struck a chord. Her mother used to say that they had a bulldog growing up. She remembered because it had a rather funny name.

Harley scribbled on her notebook and held it up. There was only one word: _Gladstone_

Sherlock squinted at her note, then looked at her as if silently asking if she was sure. She nodded, and he typed in the word. The computer made a sound as it unlocked, opening up to the desktop.

 _Holy crap, that actually worked?_ she thought, stunned.

Sherlock looked up at her with a scrutinizing frown, as if not entirely sure what to make of her. Harley dropped her gaze to her math homework, finding it uncomfortable to be under his intense gaze.

He spoke up several moments later. "People really say that about you, don't they?" She looked at him in confusion, and he explained, "That you are emotionally disturbed. You weren't making that up, were you?"

She tensed, her face blanching a bit. _Oh, geez, why did I even write that?_ she thought.

"Hmm, I'll take that as a yes," he said when she didn't even nod. "I assume the doctors diagnosed you with that— the ones your mother took you to when you were younger, the psychiatrists and therapists."

She looked away. This was not the conversation she wanted to have— at least not anymore— and especially not with someone like Sherlock. The past few days, they hardly ever bothered each other, only interacting a couple of times. She'd read or do something with John, and he'd do whatever, and stayed out of each other's way. But now, it was like all his attention was suddenly on her. She wasn't sure if she liked that or not.

But, she supposed it couldn't be avoided forever. With a deep sigh, she wrote on her notebook and tentatively slid it across the desk toward him before she could change her mind. He picked it up and read:

 _Actually, they mostly said I had some sort of rare, early onset of anxiety disorder, or something along those lines. It was my teachers and school counselor who said I had an emotional issue. Since I don't speak, I don't participate, and that means I'm an "unstable" student who must be watched at all times._

Sherlock scoffed when he finished reading. "Idiots. As if they know the first thing about emotional disorders. They see a child who doesn't act like all the others, and they instantly label and alienate them. Just because you're mute, it doesn't mean you're unstable. That's ridiculous."

Harley stared in shock. Did he just…disagree with her teachers? That was definitely a first. Well, John always said she was fine, but she could still see the pity in his eyes whenever he told her, like he only said it to make her feel better. But when Sherlock said so, he was saying it like it was a simple truth, a fact that everyone should know.

"Don't look so surprised, Harley," said Sherlock, passing her notebook back to her. "You know it's not true either."

She shook her head, and hastily wrote: _It's just that no one's ever believed otherwise._

He stared a minute then looked up. "Well, you have one who does now."

A look of uncertainty crossed her face, and he smirked knowingly. "You're conversing with _me_ , aren't you? That's participation."

She blinked, her face turning expressionless, not giving him a response that time. She lowered her head and delved back into her Algebra homework. A short time later she heard the sound of Sherlock's fingers typing away on her uncle's laptop. She dared a glimpse up to see him gazing intently at the screen, then back down at her paper. She tried to come off it as no big deal, but the truth was, deep down, what he said had hit pretty close to home. All her life, she was like this. She's had to learn to live with it— most of the time on her own. And chances were, that wasn't going to change. People have constantly tried to tell her what was wrong with her, but it was hard to take them seriously, when she herself didn't know why she was the way she was. Perhaps she did have an anxiety or emotional issue; that she was afraid she'd say the wrong thing or something. But it's not like she didn't _want_ to talk. She literally couldn't. No matter how hard she tried— no matter how many times people tried to coax her into making even the slightest of sounds with her nonexistent voice— her tongue seemed to want to curl up into her mouth, refusing to cooperate with her. She even found it hard to smile sometimes, or to show a strong emotion.

Wow, when she really thought about it, was there anything about her face that she _did_ have control over?

In the end, she simply stopped trying, and it took a lot longer for everyone else to do the same.

It was a real shame, too. She usually had a lot on her mind that she wanted to express. If only.

But to sit here, in this room, with someone whom she's only met recently, who told her that she wasn't unstable or a "problem child" just because if her inability to speak. It was…refreshing, to say the least. But at the same time, it was a little scary. She was truthful to him earlier: no one's ever believed otherwise before. She just wasn't sure how to feel about it at the moment. She needed more time to think about it, and if she even trusted Sherlock enough to believe him.

A while later, the door downstairs opened, followed by footsteps coming up the staircase, the owner sounding like he was struggling. Sure enough, it was John, arms full to the brim with groceries.

"Don't worry about me, I can manage," he called out sarcastically as he tried to make his way into the kitchen.

 _And that, my friends, is where I get my sass,_ Harley thought with amusement as she stood up to go help him. Sherlock remained in his seat, unmoving. As she and John placed the bags carefully on the table, something caught John's eye, and he turned to the living room. "Is that my computer?"

Harley froze. _Oh, oops._

"Of course," Sherlock replied, still typing.

"What?"

"Mine was in the bedroom."

"What, and you couldn't be bothered to get up?" John asked incredulously. Then he looked at Harley. "Did you know?"

She put her hands up in an innocent gesture. She wasn't about to tell him that not only did she know, she pretty much gave him the password. Though, in her defense, she didn't think it would work.

"It's password protected!" John said crossly, his attention back on Sherlock.

Harley looked away.

"In a manner of speaking," Sherlock said, turning his head slightly to look at the both of them. "Took me less than a minute to guess yours. Not exactly Fort Knox."

"Right, thank you," John grumbled. He stalked over and slammed his laptop closed, Sherlock pulling his fingers out of the way in time. As John walked across the room to set his computer on the floor by his chair and sat down, Sherlock sent a look Harley's way as he clasped his hands over his chin: _You owe me._ Then he turned his gaze to the wall in front of him, looking thoughtful, resting his elbows on the table.

Harley frowned, then shook her head as she walked back into the living room. She was just about to go back to doing her Algebra packet, but the sound of police sirens wailing in the distance outside caught her attention. Curious, she went over to the window, gently pulling the curtain away to look outside better. They were in a prime spot in London, so it was only natural that it was constantly buzzing with life and noise out there— even on so-called quiet days. But that siren seemed to sound pretty close.

Meanwhile, John picked up a small pile of letters from the side table. "Oh," he said as he flicked through the letters before sighing in resignation, "Need to get a job."

"Oh, dull," Sherlock drawled.

Harley glanced at the two of them, the police sirens fading away outside. Sherlock seemed to be lost in thought. John put the bills back on the table. Then he awkwardly sat forward with his hands folded.

"Listen, um…" he started, licking his lips nervously, his eyes shifting to Harley before landing back on Sherlock, as if he were embarrassed he was bringing it up in front of her, "if you'd be able to lend me some…" he trailed off, just now realizing that Sherlock was in a world of his own. "Sherlock, are you listening?"

Harley had stopped listening as well; the police sirens were back, louder than last time. She looked out the window again, not noticing Sherlock finally come out of his thoughts.

"I need to go to the bank," he proclaimed, not looking at either of them as he shot up and headed for the stairs, taking his black Belstaff coat from the hook on the door.

John seemed surprised by the unexpected action, but nonetheless got up and retrieved his coat. Then he turned to his niece. "Harley, you don't mind if we pop out for a bit, do you—"

"Aren't you coming, Harley?"

She and John turned to Sherlock, both taken aback.

"What?" John stammered. "You…you want her to come along?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes impatiently. "I believe that was the point I was getting across, yes."

"I— I don't know if that's—"

"What do you think, Harley?" Sherlock cut him off once more, eyes back on Harley as he tied his blue scarf around his neck. When the girl still looked doubtful, he offered, "You could stay here in this congested flat, with nothing to do but read and wallow in your own thoughts, or…you could come along, where the real excitement happens out there. What do you say?"

She looked back out the window, the police sirens fading away again, but the city still hummed with various sounds out there, where anything could happen, just waiting for her.

 _Well, when you put it into a perspective like_ that _…_ she mused.

That settled it. Faster than John's ever seen her move, she swiped her notebook and marker from the desk and ran past them, flashing them the universal "Just a moment" sign with her index finger before she scrambled up to her room. Sherlock smirked as she went, and John had a look like, _What just happened?_ In no time, she was back with her olive green windbreaker jacket on, black and grey-striped scarf tied around her neck, and her blue knapsack in tow— ready to go.

"Come along then, Watsons," said Sherlock, flipping his coat collar up and bounding down the stairs, them following closely behind him.

"Um, we _are_ just going to the bank, right?" John asked warily.

"Of course," Sherlock called back. Then he glanced back at Harley and added in a low, smug voice so only she could hear, "for now."

Harley felt her lips twitch up into a small smile as they stepped out into the brisk, London air, feeling like she had just agreed to go on one of the biggest adventures of a lifetime— like Bilbo Baggins from _The Hobbit_ , almost, only without all the magic, dragons and dwarves. But still…this was going to be whole different ball game for her.

* * *

 **A/N- AND WE'RE OFF! Now things are beginning to get exciting. The Blind Banker seemed like a good place for Harley to get started case-wise. I love that episode, even though it seems to be everyone else's least favorite, but whatevs. Plus, it took place around the end of March, according to John's blog. So the fact that it's taking place when schools are usually on their breaks just seemed to fit perfectly for this.**

 **Fun Fact: Gladstone is the name of Dr. Watson's bulldog from the Sherlock Holmes movies directed by Guy Ritchie. So it's basically a Sherlock reference within a Sherlock fic...SHERLOCK-CEPTION! *Dubstep sound effect***

 **And yes, I also get the irony of the Hobbit reference. Now sit down.**


	5. A Trip to the Bank

**A/N- I'm back, and I'm feeling a lot better than I was a few days ago! Thank you so much to everyone who wished me well.**

 **And oh my gosh, I just want to thank all who have reviewed, favorited, and followed my story so far. I honestly didn't expect to get this much of a response so quickly. That's just...wow! *blows kisses* :D**

 **And now, as a reward for good behavior, here's chapter five! Come, my friends! The game is on!**

 **Disclaimer: I only own my OC. BBC Sherlock belongs to the ever fantabulous duo Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

After several minutes of riding in the cab through London, they finally arrived at their destination: Tower 42 on 25 Old Broad Street, the Shad Sanderson Investment Bank. Sherlock led John and Harley through the revolving glass doors into the building.

As soon as Harley entered the foyer, she was in awe. The place was bright, massive, and extremely posh, with many people in suits entering and exiting frequently, on phones or on computers— not the kind of bank she's ever seen before.

"Yes, when you said we were going to the bank…" John said, clearly impressed by the layout of the building as well. Sherlock led them onto an escalator, knowing precisely where he was going. As they ascended, Harley looked around some more, trying to take notice of everything as much as she could, as she knew she'd most likely never have the privilege to be in such a place like this again. She noticed the electronic billboard signs up above, listing various cities around the world with time of the day beneath them. _This place must be international,_ she guessed. She also found that not only was it huge, it also had a really good security system going on— with multiple cameras all around and glass barrier gates that could only be opened by a card swipe across an electronic reader.

So it made Harley wonder why Sherlock Holmes, a consulting detective, was called here if the place seemed pretty much impenetrable. What was the problem?

She pondered about it for a moment until she came up with only one possible explanation.

When they reached the top of the escalator, Harley wrote something on her notebook in pencil, then caught up with Sherlock and nervously tugged on his coat sleeve.

When his eyes snapped to her, she showed him the paper at an angle so only he could see it.

 _Break in?_

The detective raised an eyebrow, then looked at her. He gave her a barely perceptible nod before focusing again on the task ahead. He led them over to a very long reception desk and addressed one of the available receptionists, "Sherlock Holmes."

They've obviously been expecting him. The receptionist immediately called upstairs, and when she was finished, she stood up and led them over to the lifts. After a ride up several floors, she showed them into a business office, the name in the holder just outside the door saying Sebastian Wilkes. The receptionist told them that Mr. Wilkes will be with them shortly and left them alone.

Harley looked around at the office. Just like everything else in the building, it was brightly lit, with a television set up on the wall across from the big, glass desk that had two computer screens and other miscellaneous office supplies on it. The window behind it showed a decent view of the city and the river below.

"Enjoying the view?" John asked her when he saw her gazing out in wonder.

 _You betcha,_ she thought, nodding in confirmation.

Shortly after, a brunette man walked into the office, wearing a nice, blue suit with a matching tie. He grinned at Sherlock as he approached.

"Sherlock Holmes!" the man greeted cheerfully.

"Sebastian," Sherlock greeted back as they shook hands, Sebastian clasping Sherlock's in both of his own.

"Howdy, buddy. How long's it been? Eight years since I last clapped eyes on you?" Sebastian asked.

At first, Harley assumed that they were old friends, but then she saw the tight look on Sherlock's face, as if he was barely disguising a long-lasting dislike. She eyed the two of them closely. So…they weren't friends? Now that she noticed, there was quite a bit of tension between the two of them. Sebastian's welcome manner did come off as a bit forced, his smile starting to look more condescending the more he looked at Sherlock. Oh no, they weren't friends; in fact, far from it. There was some bad blood there. When they said they haven't seen each other in a long time, it was by choice.

 _But why?_ Harley asked herself.

When they finished greeting each other, Sebastian turned to look at her and John next. She automatically straightened, staring at him steadily.

"This is my friend, John Watson," Sherlock introduced her uncle, subtly putting emphasis on the word _friend_ , before turning to her, "and his niece, Harley."

Sebastian looked at Sherlock, almost as if in disbelief. "Friend?" he asked.

"Colleague," John corrected firmly.

Harley cast him a pointed glance. _Wow. I love you, Uncle, but that was pretty cold._

"Ah…right," Sebastian said as he and John shook hands, giving Sherlock a grin that was nothing short of smug and unpleasant.

Harley narrowed her eyes at him. She was starting to put her finger on why Sherlock didn't like him.

Then he turned to her, grabbing her hand and shaking it before she could even offer it out. "And very nice to meet you— Harley, was it?"

She didn't even nod.

When she didn't answer, he chuckled and opened his mouth. Oh, no. Don't say it. Don't say it—

"You're a shy one, aren't you?"

Ah, he said it.

 _I'm not shy, damn it!_ she practically screamed in her head as she looked at him with a level glare.

"No, she's just mute," Sherlock said bluntly before John himself could explain.

"Oh," was all Sebastian could say to that as he scratched the back of his neck, looking a bit uncomfortable. _Good._

Eventually, though, he regained his confidence and turned back toward his desk, flashing Harley what she _guessed_ was supposed to be an apologetic smile before he did so. "Well, grab a pew. Do you need anything? Coffee? Water?"

 _Juice box?_ Harley added jokingly.

Both she and Sherlock shook their heads and John told him no.

"No? Well, we're all sorted here, thanks," he told his secretary who was standing by the door. She nodded and left as he sat behind his desk. Sherlock, John and Harley sat down across the desk from him, Harley being in between the two men.

"So, you're doing well," Sherlock started up a conversation, though not with much enthusiasm. "You've been abroad a lot."

"Well, some," said Sebastian.

"Flying all the way around the world twice in a month?"

There was a brief pause, in which John frowned in confusion and Harley glanced sideways at Sherlock curiously, wondering how he knew that.

But then Sebastian laughed and pointed at him. "Right. You're doing that thing." He turned to the Watsons. "We were at uni together. This guy had a trick he used to do."

"It's not a trick," Sherlock said, his voice a bit softer than usual. Sebastian ignored him.

"He could look at you and tell you your whole life story."

Harley frowned at the mocking tone he was using. Just what was he getting at?

"Yes, we've seen him do it," John told him.

"Put the wind up everybody. We _hated_ him."

Harley felt her heart drop, finally putting two and two together on their relationship. She looked over at Sherlock beside her and saw him turn his head away slightly, looking at the padded floor. It was the flash of hurt that crossed his face before he recomposed himself that confirmed what she feared: He used to be bullied— badly, by the looks of it. Now it all made sense.

"You'd come down to breakfast in the formal hall, and this freak would know you'd been shagging the previous night," Sebastian continued talking about Sherlock like he wasn't even there.

That did it. She looked at Sebastian, her eyes blazing. Her annoyance toward him earlier had now morphed into full-blown detestation as she saw him for what he truly was: a bully who thought he was better than everyone else and that he can push people around.

She should know. She's had to deal with people just like him at her school. Students who harassed and jeered at her, knowing she couldn't talk back at them to defend herself. Teachers who assumed she was just too stupid to speak because she wouldn't answer when called in class. All those times they all looked down on her. All those times they called her that short, yet crucially powerful word: _Freak._ All because she was different. She hated it, hated people like them— like Sebastian. He treated Sherlock like dirt all those years ago, and now he had the gall to ask for his help just to use him for his own benefit.

"I simply observed," Sherlock said in reply to Sebastian's statement, his voice still quiet.

"Go on, then, enlighten me. Two trips a month, flying all the way around the world— you're quite right. How could you tell?" Sebastian challenged, his smug smile still plastered across his face.

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, but Sebastian interrupted, "You're gonna tell me there was, um, a stain on my tie from some special kind of ketchup you can only buy in Manhattan."

Harley clenched the pencil in her hand so tight, it started to make crease marks in her palm, her anger rising.

"No, I—" Sherlock tried again, only to once again be cut off by Sebastian.

"Maybe it was the mud on my shoes!"

 _Maybe I'll kick you in your sweet spot, give you a lovely soprano,_ Harley thought, scowling at him. _Maybe then Sherlock won't tell you'd been shagging._

When Sherlock was certain Sebastian was finished, he spoke calmly, "I was just chatting with your secretary outside. She told me."

There was a brief moment of silence, during of which John looked over at him in confusion. He didn't speak with the secretary at all. But that was precisely the point. Harley glanced at him, the corner of her mouth curling into a small smirk. _Oh, you little troll,_ she thought.

Sebastian laughed nervously, and Sherlock gave him a sarcastic smile in return. Then Sebastian clapped his hands together, becoming more serious now. "Well, I'm glad you could make it. We've had a bit of a break in."

He stood from his chair and led them out of his office. Harley went out of her way to stay as far away from him as possible as they followed him through the trading floor, which was bustling with several workers talking on phones or typing on computers.

"Sir William's office — the bank's former Chairman. The room's been left here like a sort of memorial. Someone broke in late last night," Sebastian informed them as they made their way across the floor, weaving their way around cubicles.

"What did they steal?" John asked.

"Nothing. Just left a little message." Sebastian swiped a security card across the reader on the door, and it unlocked a second later. They went in, and were greeted by a large, framed portrait of a man in a suit — the late Sir William Shad. It looked normal…except that someone had spray-painted a slightly tilted yellow line across his eyes, leaving little run trails down the painting. Just to the left of the portrait on the plain white wall, someone also sprayed what looked like a graffiti tag in the same color. The mark almost looked like the number eight, only without the top part, and it had another almost horizontal line above it.

 _What the heck?_ Harley thought.

Sebastian led the way towards the painting and then stepped aside to give Sherlock a clear view of it. John and Harley moved to stand on the other side of Sebastian while Sherlock stared fixedly at the graffiti.

Harley tilted her head to the side as she too analyzed the paint. Why in the world would someone go through the trouble to break into a highly secure facility just to leave a message? And how did they even _get_ in? She did a quick look around the room, noticing the camera high up in a corner of the ceiling, overlooking the entire room. That had to have caught the person, right? And furthermore, you'd need a card to get in, as proven by Sebastian Jerk-face Wilkes himself. The only other way in was if you climbed high up and got in through the window, but that was impossible….right?

She looked over at the floor-to-ceiling windows, which led out to a balcony and had a remarkable view of the Swiss Re Tower just across the way. She frowned, contemplating. _Could_ someone be capable of climbing up this building?

Before she could go any further, John's voice interrupted her thoughts. "Harley?"

She flinched and looked back. Sebastian was starting to lead them out of the office.

"I know how much you like the view, but come on, let's go," said John.

She sighed. Yes, she liked the view, but that wasn't what she was doing _. Oh, well._ She followed them out. They were led back into Sebastian's office and were shown the security footage from the night before.

"Sixty seconds apart," Sebastian said as he clicked a button on the keyboard, flicking the still between 23:34:01, showing the markings, and then back to 23:33:01, where the wall and painting was still graffiti-free. "So, someone came up here in the middle of the night, splashed paint around, then left within a minute."

"How many ways into that office?" Sherlock enquired.

"Well, that's where this gets really interesting."

They were led back down into the reception area. Sebastian typed on an open computer and brought up what looked like a blueprint of the trading floor, and each entry way had a light with their security status. "Every door that opens in this bank, it gets logged right here. Every walk-in cupboard, every toilet."

"That door didn't open last night," Sherlock said as he looked over the outline.

Harley squinted at the screen. So there really was no other way the person got in…unless they would walk through walls. Or the window.

Sebastian nodded. "There's a hole in our security. Find it, and we'll pay you. Five figures." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a check. "This is an advance. Tell me how he got in, and there's a bigger one on the way."

"I don't need an incentive, _Sebastian_ ," Sherlock said with spite, Sebastian's name rolling off his tongue like poison before turning and walking away, leaving John and Harley behind with Sebastian.

It was John who broke the awkward silence. "He's, uh, he's kidding you, obviously. Shall I look after that for him?"

Sebastian wordlessly handed him the check, his jaw tight.

"Thank you," John said, peeking down at how much was written on the check and widening his eyes a bit. It must've been a lot of money for just an advance. But that wasn't important at the moment. Harley grabbed his hand and pulled him along, wanting to catch back up with Sherlock and see what happened next.

"Alright, alright!" John said with a laugh, struggling to put the check in his pocket with one free hand while being dragged by his niece.

* * *

Meanwhile, Sherlock had already made his way back to Sir William's office, using the card he had shamelessly pickpocketed from Sebastian to get back in. Taking out his mobile phone, he started to take several pictures of the graffiti. Once that was done, he slowly turned about the room. His mind was racing as he examined each and every detail of the room, trying to uncover how the perpetrator had got in undetected, without triggering the security system. The person didn't use the door, but they got in somehow. He thought back to the first time he had entered the room. Had there been something he missed? He didn't think so. He merely observed the painting, while Sebastian and John watched alongside, and Harley stared out the window.

He stopped, then turned to face the window with a frown. He walked over and pulled the blind up. Then he opened the window and stepped out onto the balcony, peering over at the long drop to the ground. He took note of the design of the building up and down, gauging whether it was climbable or not. The person would have to be strong and very athletic to pull such a stunt. It was risky, but still probable.

Sherlock couldn't help but smile. John had thought Harley was just enjoying the view, but he had caught a glimpse of the pensive expression she had when looking— an expression he knew all too well. She wasn't sightseeing; she was observing, theorizing. She was on to something.

"Hmm," he hummed thoughtfully as he went back inside, closing the blinds when he did so.

He had an idea how the culprit got in. Now to find out who the message on the wall was intended for.

* * *

While Sherlock was looking around for more clues, John and Harley found a place to sit on the trading floor, well out of the detective's way but still in sight to see what he was doing.

"So, having fun yet?" John asked her. "I know you didn't expect to be dragged out of the flat by Sherlock today. _I_ didn't even expect it."

Harley gave him a reassuring look, then took out her notebook and pencil: _Technically I dragged myself out, but I am having fun. It's like one of those crime shows, only with better screenwriting and direction._

John chuckled after reading. "Of course you'd think that."

She smirked.

When his laughter died down, he cleared his throat and looked at her. "So…have you heard from your mother lately? Is she doing better?"

Harley's face suddenly became downcast, and she looked away.

"Oh," John said, understanding what was going on, and feeling guilty he had brought it up. "No, huh?"

She shook her head, pressing her lips together. It was true. After her first evening away, she hadn't gotten a text or email from her mother since then. Harley wanted to justify that she just had a lot to deal with at the moment. But still…how hard was it to type a simple "hello"?

She sighed. It always seemed like when her mother wasn't trying too hard to care for her, it was like she almost didn't want anything to do with her. There was hardly ever an in-between.

John looked at her troubled face with concern. Then a moment later, he put on a grin. "Hey, remember when I first took you into the city with me?" he asked, changing the subject. "You were four years old, and when you looked up and saw all these tall buildings for the first time…you started crying. You thought they were giant monsters." He started laughing.

Harley, however, was not amused. Without even taking her eyes off him, she wrote: _I will toss you across this room._

That only made John laugh harder.

Seeing that he was just trying to make her feel better— and it was working— her face softened, allowing a small smile to form. She leaned against him and rested her head on his shoulder, intertwining his fingers with hers as she took his hand. John smiled fondly down at his niece, planting a kiss on the top of her head. Then he looked back up and saw a sight that made him start laughing again.

He gently nudged Harley and pointed across the room. She looked up and saw Sherlock, and he was….well, the best way for Harley to describe it was that he was… _dancing_. He dove behind a desk, but then slowly raised upright, his eyes concentrating on the doorway into Sir William's office. Then he ducked sideways and scurried across the floor, only to rise up again, still looking towards the office. Some of the workers stopped and gave him odd looks.

 _What is he doing?_ she wondered with interest. This was way more entertaining than staying home. The only thing missing here was the James Bond theme.

He continued to do this pattern, twirling around pillars and making his way across the room until he found himself into another open office in the back of the room. He stood up straight, gazing across the room, and he suddenly looked satisfied with what he saw. Then he looked around until he was outside the office again, and he spotted the two signs on the wall. He took the slip of paper out of the top holder and walked away. He caught sight of the Watsons and motioned for them to come along.

"Here we go again," John mumbled as they stood and followed him back to the lifts.

Once back in the reception area, John spoke up, "Two trips around the world this month. You didn't ask his secretary. You said that just to irritate him."

Sherlock smiled but said nothing as they walked towards the escalator, while at the same time Harley thought, _Well, duh._

"How did you know?" John asked.

Harley looked up at Sherlock, wanting to know as well.

"Did you see his watch?" Sherlock asked.

"His watch?"

"The time was right but the date was wrong— said two days ago. Crossed the dateline twice but he didn't alter it."

"Within a month? How'd you get that part?"

"New Beitling— only came out this February."

Harley stared. He got all of that just by looking at Sebastian's watch?

"Okay. So do you think we should sniff around here a bit longer?" John asked as they reached the bottom of the moving stairs, jumping off and heading for the exit.

"Got everything I need to know already, thanks," Sherlock answered. When John only hummed in confusion, he elaborated, "That graffiti was a message for someone at the bank working on the trading floors. We find the intended recipient and…" he trailed off intentionally.

 _We find our little graffiti artist,_ Harley concluded, just as John finished, "…They'll lead us to the person who sent it."

"Obvious," said Sherlock.

 _Oh, good, we're all on the same page,_ Harley thought with relief.

"Well, there's three hundred people up there. Who was it meant for?" John questioned.

"Pillars," was Sherlock's only response.

"What?"

"Pillars and the screens. Very few places you can see that graffiti from. That narrows the field considerably. And, of course, the message was left at eleven thirty-four last night. That tells us a lot."

Harley thought back to when he was moving around the trading floor, ducking up and down. So _that's_ what he was doing. He was trying to find the one place on the floor where there was a clear view of the painting. Whoever worked in that very spot, that was who the message was intended for.

 _Wow,_ she praised. She wrote a little something down in her notebook as the two men continued to talk.

"Does it?" John asked Sherlock. They had pushed their way through the revolving doors, heading back outside.

"Traders come to work at all hours. Some trade with Hong Kong in the middle of the night. That message was intended for someone who came in at midnight."

"Who?"

At this, Sherlock flashed them the slip of paper he had taken from the holder on the trading floor, bearing the name Edward Van Coon. "Not many Van Coon's in the phone book."

Sherlock suddenly felt something pressed into his free palm. He looked down in confusion and saw a small, partially ripped note in his hand. He held it up and saw it only said one thing:

 _Brilliant._

He blinked, then looked over his shoulder at John's niece, who stared back, her eyes filled with admiration.

At first he seemed unsure how to react, but then he gave her a ghost of a smile and put the note in his coat pocket. Then he turned and called out for a taxi.

Moments later found them in the back of a cab again. Sherlock had spent the first minute on his phone, typing away. Harley was sitting next to him, so she had a good view on what he was doing. He was looking up addresses under the name Van Coon. He was right: there really weren't that many. He quickly found the right one with the first name Edward, which wasn't very far from where they were. He told the cabbie the address, and they were on their way.

Several minutes passed by in silence as they rode through the city, until they eventually pulled up in front of a rather big apartment complex. They stepped out the cab after paying and walked over to the locked doors. Sherlock pressed on the buzzer marked Van Coon and looked into the security camera. When no one answered a couple of seconds later, he pressed the buzzer again.

"So what do we do now, sit here and wait for him to come back?" John asked.

Meanwhile, Harley's eyes wandered over the dozens of buzzers and labels in front of her. Each of them were almost identical, the names printed in black ink on grey paper. All except for one, just above Van Coon's name one floor up. The holder had a white slip of paper, the name "Wintle" handwritten in blue ink. She absentmindedly reached out and ran her fingers over it.

Then she jumped when she suddenly felt another set of gloved fingers brushing over hers on the label. She looked over nervously at the consulting detective, whom they belonged to. She thought he was going to reprimand her or something, but to her surprise, he was grinning.

"Good eye, Harley," he said.

She just stared back at him.

"What do you mean?" John asked, looking between the two in confusion.

Sherlock turned to John. "Just moved in."

"What?"

"The floor above. New label."

Sherlock pressed the buzzer next to the label as John remarked, "Could've just replaced it."

Sherlock gave him a look. "No one ever does that." Then he turned to Harley. "You, come here."

Harley's eyes widened. _Wait, what?_

Before she could process what he said, he had already pulled her closer to him into the camera's viewpoint just as a woman's voice came over the intercom.

"Hello?" the woman, presumably Miss Wintle, called out.

"Hi!" Sherlock greeted in a rather cheerful voice, not sounding like himself at all as he smiled friendlily into the camera. "Um, my daughter and I live in the flat just below you. I-I don't think we've met."

Harley could feel her cheeks heating up in shock. _What…the…_

"No, well, uh, I've just moved in," Miss Wintle said uncertainly.

Sherlock took a moment to throw John a look that said, _Told you so,_ and then turned back to the camera, putting a hand on Harley's shoulder. "Actually, um, I've just locked my keys in our flat," he said with a grimace, biting his lip.

"Do you want me to buzz you in?" she asked.

Sherlock nodded, and Harley, now understanding what he was doing, nodded as well— though she was still a bit flustered.

"Yeah," Sherlock answered, and then quickly added, "And can we use your balcony?"

"What?"

It took a little more convincing for Miss Wintle to finally buzz them into the building. They headed up the stairs to Miss Wintle's flat. Wanting to keep up their cover story, John was told to stay on Van Coon's floor while Sherlock and Harley continued up. At first, John was hesitant, but Harley gave him a comforting look. _Don't worry, I'll be fine._

At least, she hoped.

As she and Sherlock took the lift up to the next floor, she cast him a wary glance, wondering why he had included her into the cover story. He could've just gone up alone.

Then, almost as if he could read her thoughts, he spoke up, "The average person — particularly the average female — finds a single father more trusting and appealing than a man living alone. With you, we had a much higher chance of getting in."

 _Ohhhh._

Breathing easier now, she wrote down in her notebook for him: _You're right, that does make more sense. Sorry, you just surprised me, that's all._

"Hmm, I tend to do that a lot with you, don't I?"

She looked down and shrugged. It wasn't her fault he came across as spontaneous to her.

"And besides…" Sherlock said, just as the door to the lift opened and they stepped out, "…staying down there would've been boring. This is much more fun, don't you agree?"

She lifted her gaze back up at Sherlock, who had a sort of smug smile. But before she could answer in any way, they had already made it to Miss Wintle's flat and were invited in.

"So how long have you two been living here?" Miss Wintle asked.

"Oh, about two years. It's a nice place, good neighborhood," Sherlock said casually before changing the subject, "Now, about your balcony…"

She led them through her flat toward her door opening to the terrace.

"Um, are you sure you want to do that?" Miss Wintle asked as they stepped outside, toward the edge. "It's not really safe." She glanced from him to Harley.

Sherlock flashed her a convincing smile. "Not to worry, we do this all the time. I'm always forgetting my keys."

Miss Wintle didn't seem all that convinced, as if she was questioning his parenting skills, but nonetheless left them be as Sherlock climbed over the side of the balcony, hanging there for a second, until he jumped down. Harley looked over the edge to see him land safely on the full-width balcony. Luckily, Van Coon's terrace was directly below them.

"Your turn, Harley," Sherlock called up to her.

For a fleeting moment, she looked down past the balcony below her to the ground several feet down, and felt a twinge of fear and doubt— that perhaps there was a chance she'd miss the balcony and fall. But then her gaze locked back on Sherlock and the balcony right below her, knowing that was unlikely to happen.

She swallowed her fear and nodded curtly, and quickly put her notebook in her backpack so she could climb down easier. She hoisted herself over the edge, hanging off the railing like Sherlock was earlier. Then, taking a deep breath, she let go. She only fell for a few seconds until Sherlock caught her.

"There, that wasn't so bad now, was it?" he asked, setting her down on her feet.

She breathed out steadily, trying to slow down her heartbeat. Then she managed a smile up at Sherlock and shook her head. _I just jumped a balcony. Batman_ wishes _he was me._

They went towards the glass door, which fortunately was unlocked. Sherlock went in first, pulling the white curtain out of the way, and Harley followed.

It was a very nice flat. It was well-decorated, clean, and spacious— with shiny, black, matching tables, white furniture, and hardly any clutter around, only a few piles of books here and there.

"Try not to touch anything while we're here," Sherlock told her as he opened the fridge, which was filled with big bottles of champagne.

Suddenly the doorbell outside buzzed, followed by John's voice. "Sherlock? Harley? Are you guys okay?"

Harley was about to go answer the door, but Sherlock stopped her, giving her a look. _Not yet._

She didn't know why he didn't want her to get John, but she nodded anyway, figuring he knew what he was doing. So they continued through the flat, passing an empty bathroom. Sherlock peered in it for a second before they moved on toward a large, closed door at the end of the hall. He tried to open it, but it was locked from the inside.

"Yeah, anytime you feel like letting me in," John called out again, his voice filled with impatience.

"Stand back," Sherlock ordered as he took a step back, turning until his shoulder faced the door. Knowing what he was going to do, Harley did as she was told. Then he charged and rammed into the door with his shoulder, and it burst open, banging against the walls from the force of the blow. He stumbled into the room until he righted himself. Harley followed him in, not noticing Sherlock stopping and staring at something in the room until it was too late. When she approached Sherlock, she followed his gaze. What she saw made her stop dead in her tracks, and her blood ran cold as ice.

Over on the bed, a man in a suit and coat lay on his back. A gun rested on the floor. The man stared straight up at the ceiling with sightless, dead eyes; a bleeding, bullet-sized hole in his right temple.

 _Oh, no._

* * *

 **A/N- Uh oh. Harley wasn't expecting that. I mean, I was, and you too, but...oops. I wonder how she reacts...*sideways glance***

 **I hope I'm doing okay with writing out the episode while including Harley so far. I'm trying to make her contribute as much as she can.**

 **As always, feel free to review, fave, follow, or just keep reading on if you like! *In little girl voice* Okay I love you buh-bye!**

 **P.S. My first experience in a big city was exactly like Harley's. I was four, and growing up in the country, I wasn't used to tall buildings. So when I saw them, I freaked out. My mother has yet to cease from reminding me whenever we travel...smh.**


	6. A Deadly Threat

**A/N- Who has two thumbs and just finished the sixth chapter earlier than she thought she would? This girl! To quote Sherlock, "I'm on FIRE!"** **That's what I get for having nothing else to do on Sunday.** **And bonus, this chapter is focused mostly on Sherlock again. So there you go.**

 **Also, I meant to say this earlier. I'm sure most of you figured this out by now, but the title for this story was inspired by one of my favorite songs, "Brave" by Sara Bareilles, which is pretty much the theme song for this entire story. If you haven't heard that song yet, go check it out. It's an awesome, uplifting song. One of Sara's best.**

 **Quote that inspired this chapter (and perhaps more chapters to come): "Kids are strong. You'd be surprised what they can deal with." ~Dean Winchester; _Supernatural_**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

The second both Sherlock and Harley saw the body — Edward Van Coon's body — lying there on the bed with a bullet in his brain, the entire situation had changed in that instant.

Sherlock turned to look at Harley, who just stood there, staring at the body. Her face was devoid of any kind of emotion, so it was difficult to tell what was going through her mind at that moment. It was as though she was still trying to grasp the notion that there was a dead person in front of her, while also trying to decide how she was supposed to feel about it. Eventually, depending on how she took it, she might go into shock.

Sherlock sighed, then walked over to her until he was directly in front of her, placing his hands on her shoulders. She didn't react.

"Harley. Harley, look at me," he said, his voice somewhere between stern and gentle. He had never really had experience comforting a child before, but if he was ever going to learn, now was as a good time as any.

She slowly lifted her gaze up to meet his, still expressionless.

"It's just a body. It's not going to hurt you," he assured her. When she made no attempt to respond, he thought for a moment and tried a new tact. "You remember all those experiments you've watched me perform in the kitchen?"

At this, she nodded once.

"Well, this is no different from all those times. Only now, all of the parts are still attached together."

Surprisingly, she seemed to consider that concept for a moment. Then she swallowed, and nodded in confirmation. She took her notebook and started to write, her hand shaking slightly:

 _We should call the police._

He stared at the note, almost astounded at how she still had enough sense to think logically, despite her discomfort. "Yes, of course," he said. He straightened and backed away to give her some space, taking out his mobile phone and typing out a text to Lestrade.

 **Come to Edward Van Coon's flat at once. He's dead. –SH**

He added the address to the message and sent it on its way to the Detective Inspector. Then he turned back to Harley. "We can go let John in now. You may stay in the living room if it starts to get too much for you. I just ask you again to not touch anything, as Scotland Yard will be here shortly to look for evidence."

Her face hardened, and she shook her head before writing:

 _I'll be fine._

"I'm not saying you won't be, but good luck getting that past John, if his overprotectiveness has any say in it."

She made a face that would match perfectly with a groan, and then turned to go get her uncle. Sherlock spun a full three-sixty, doing another quick sweep of the room to make sure he had what he needed to confirm his theory on how Van Coon died, along with observations he made all through the other parts of the flat. Then Harley hurried back into the room, John's footsteps not far behind her. He could see her bracing herself for the oncoming storm.

"Sherlock? Sherlock are you—"

John stopped a few paces into the room, his eyes widening in horror at the sight of a corpse lying in the room… _with his niece._

"Wha— Sherlock!" John yelled, his shock blooming into anger as he grabbed Harley and started to pull her behind him, trying to hide the body from her view. "What the hell?!"

"This is our man, Van Coon. I've just contacted Lestrade. He should be sending a team over," Sherlock said calmly — too calmly.

"Not that!" John was fuming. "I mean, what the hell are you doing letting Harley in the same room as a _dead body_!"

"Oh, do relax, John. Besides, I didn't know Van Coon was dead until we came in here. So I hardly find this to be my fault."

"Relax?! Sherlock, she's twelve! Seeing a body is not exactly a healthy image for someone her age!"

"She's fine, John. She told me herself."

"Well, you…wait, what?!" He turned to look at Harley, dumbfounded. Harley nodded lightly, as if saying, _He's right, I did._

John shook his head, turning back to Sherlock. "Well, I don't care if she _thinks_ she's fine or not. I don't want her in here."

"I don't see what the problem is. As far as dead victims go, this is minor."

"Minor?" John said, his voice dangerously soft. "How could this be minor?"

"For starters, Van Coon's entrails could've been scattered all over this room, with the bodily fluids…" Sherlock trailed off when he saw Harley frantically wave her hands and shake her head from behind a red-faced John — a gesture that universally meant, _Stop! You're making it worse!_

"…Not good?" Sherlock asked.

"Very not good," John said tetchily.

Harley rubbed a hand down her face, as if thinking, _What am I going to do with these two?_ Then she walked up and gently tugged on her uncle's jacket, getting his attention. She very gingerly held up her notebook that said in her best handwriting:

 _Please?_

Then, before John had a chance to protest even more, her face changed. Her gray eyes suddenly grew bigger, rounder, shinier. Her bottom lip quivered.

Sherlock had no idea why she was pulling such an expression, but whatever she was doing, it was causing her uncle's resolve to crumble piece by piece.

Until finally…

John cursed under his breath in defeat. "Oh, alright! Fine….but you're staying over there, as far away from the bed as possible….and try not to look this way too much!" He turned and walked away in a huff, while Harley strode over to a corner by the right of the doorway, her face back to its usual neutral self. Then she looked over at Sherlock and winked at him.

 _What sorcery did she just do?_ Sherlock thought incredulously.

"Bambi eyes," John grumbled to himself as he went to stand next to Sherlock, pacing a bit. "I don't believe it. She pulled the bloody Bambi eyes on me over this."

Sherlock stared at Harley, who had now taken interest into gently dragging the toe of her shoe across the carpet, her hands behind her back. She had just used a single look to manipulate her uncle, not a spoken word involved. How did she do that? This definitely required more study.

They didn't have to wait very long for the police to finally arrive. Soon the whole flat was swarming with forensics officers and photographers in blue jumpsuits. Sherlock exited the bedroom once to remove his coat and scarf in the living room and then returned with latex gloves. A photographer took a few pictures of Van Coon's body and then left. Just outside the door, a forensics officer was dusting for fingerprints on the mirror.

"Do you think he lost a lot of money? I mean, suicide is pretty common among city boys," John suggested once it was just the three of them again in the room.

"We don't know that it was suicide," Sherlock stated, walking over to the corner of the room where Harley resided nearby, which also happened to be where Van Coon's suitcase was.

"Come on," John argued. "The door was locked from the inside; you two had to climb down a balcony — which, by the way, I also didn't approve of."

Sherlock ignored him as he squatted down and opened up the case, looking over its contents. He became aware of another presence crouching down next to him while he did so. He glanced sideways and saw Harley, her eyes narrowed as she looked, before he returned his gaze to the suitcase.

"Been away three days, judging by the laundry," he deduced. He stood up, followed by Harley. "Look at the case; there was something tightly packed inside it."

John turned to him, arms crossed over his chest. "Thanks, I'll take your word for it."

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. "Problem?"

"Yeah, I'm not desperate to root around some bloke's dirty underwear."

Sherlock heard scribbling next to him, and looked over in time to see Harley hold up a note for him:

 _Don't mind him. He's squeamish._

He smirked at her, then turned back and approached Van Coon's body at the foot of the bed. "Those symbols at the bank — the graffiti — why were they put there?" he asked no one in particular.

"What, some sort of code?" John guessed. Unbeknownst to him, Harley had snuck up and stood beside him by the bed, overlooking the victim warily, seeming to have fully calmed down now that she had grown used to the sight of the crime scene.

"Obviously," Sherlock muttered as he started to inspect Van Coon, starting from his shoes all the way up until he was carefully searching his jacket pockets. "Why were they painted? If you want to communicate, why not use email?"

"Well, maybe he wasn't answering," John said, sounding like he was half-joking.

"Oh, good. You follow."

"Uh, nope."

Sherlock gave him a look before turning back to inspect Van Coon's hand. "What kind of message would everyone try to avoid?" he asked. "What about this morning — those letters you were looking at?"

"Bills," John answered.

That wasn't a good enough answer. As he started to examine the mouth, he looked up at John's niece. "Harley," he said, making her look at him. John sent her a disapproving glare that she wasn't where she was supposed to be, but said nothing. "What sort of message would you try to avoid, one you hope to never receive?"

Sherlock could practically see the gears turning in her head as she stared at the window ahead with a frown, searching for the right answer. Hardly a few seconds later, a look of realization crossed her face as she wrote her answer and showed it to him:

 _Threat._

He grinned. "Precisely," he said before he dropped his gaze again and pried the mouth open. He pulled out what looked like a small, black origami flower, the movement causing the air to hiss out of Van Coon's lungs now that there was no blockage.

"Yes, he was being threatened," Sherlock concluded.

Meanwhile, outside the room, a man's voice said to someone, "Bag this up, will you…"

John and Harley leaned over to get a closer look at the paper flower, hands on their knees. "Not by the gas board," murmured John.

Sherlock carefully placed the flower in an evidence bag. Then the man's voice from earlier spoke again, sounding closer, "…and see if you can get prints off this glass."

All three of them straightened as a young police officer walked into the room, wearing a tie and black overcoat. John backed away a bit, and Harley moved to stand behind him. Sherlock turned and made to approach the man, hand out to shake. "Ah, Sergeant, we haven't met."

The man didn't accept his handshake, instead placing his hands on his hips as he glared at him. "Yeah, I know who you are, and I'd prefer if you didn't tamper with any of the evidence," he snapped.

Sherlock slowly lowered his hand, his face hardening into a perverse expression as he handed over the evidence bag. "I've phoned Lestrade. Is he on his way?" he asked, his voice even.

"He's busy. _I'm_ in charge," the man said with a hint of arrogance. "And it's not Sergeant; it's Detective Inspector. Dimmock."

Sherlock and John shared a look of mutual surprise, hardly believing a man as young as him could be a DI.

But then Dimmock turned and noticed Harley, who had been standing slightly behind John, for the first time. "And who is she?! What's she doing here?" he demanded forcefully, pointing at her. "How old is she? Underage? She can't be in here!"

Harley instinctively reached out and grabbed John's hand as if afraid she was going to be taken away from him, her jaw clenched tight.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. It was bad enough that this man had waltzed into the room as if he was his boss. He was _not_ going to rid him of his silent companion as well.

"She's with me," Sherlock said coolly.

"You can't just—"

"I said…" Sherlock moved to stand in between him and the Watsons, looking down at him with a hard, intimidating glare, _"She's…with…me."_

Dimmock's face turned red with outrage, breathing heavily, but his authorative stature deflated under the detective's penetrating stare. He obviously wasn't used to being talked to like so. After five seconds of intense silence, Dimmock turned and stormed out of the room in a huff.

"Jesus, Sherlock," John said after a moment's pause, "Did you _have_ to make him wet his pants?"

Sherlock shot him a look, but then he caught Harley's gaze, which was filled with a new form of respect towards him. Silently, she nodded her head in thanks. His face softened for only a second before he looked back at John. "Come on, we're done in here." He started walking out of the room, the Watsons following suit.

They met back up with Dimmock, who was still irritated from earlier as he gave the evidence bag to one of the forensics officers. "We're obviously looking at a suicide," he said.

"That does seem the only explanation of all the facts," said John.

"Wrong," Sherlock said sharply, "It's one _possible_ solution of _some_ of the facts." He turned to Dimmock. "You've got a solution that you like, but you're choosing to ignore anything you see that doesn't comply with it."

John looked away with a look like, _Here we go again._

"Like?" Dimmock asked challengingly.

"The wound was on the _right_ side of his head," Sherlock said.

"And?"

"Van Coon was left-handed." To prove his point, he pretended to try to point a gun to his right temple with his left hand, reaching over and under his head. "Requires quite a bit of contortion."

Harley looked away, trying to hide her smile of amusement from the ridiculous gesture.

"Left-handed?" Dimmock asked in disbelief.

"Oh, I'm amazed you didn't notice. All you have to go is look around this flat," Sherlock said with a roll of his eyes before pointing out his deductions, "Coffee table on the left-hand side; coffee mug handle pointing to the left. Power sockets; habitually used the ones on the left. Pen and paper on the left-hand side of the phone because he picked it up with his right hand and then took down messages with his left. Do you want me to go on?"

"No, I think you've covered it," John deadpanned.

"Oh, I might as well. I'm almost at the bottom of the list." Then, getting an idea, he suddenly rounded on Harley, pointing at her. "You. You're left-handed, are you not?"

Harley flinched from the unexpected attention, then nodded after recovering. He silently took note not to startle her so much. "Good. Then this should be easy for you. Take a look around this flat closely, find the last clue."

"Sherlock!" John scolded. "You can't just put her on the spot like that! Just say it yourself!"

But Sherlock ignored him as he watched the young girl's eyes start to move around the room, scanning any detail. Then she stopped and blinked, finally spotting something. She looked back at him and pointed hesitantly at the table— more specifically, the knife on the breadboard.

He felt a twinge of excitement rise in his chest. "Yes. Now explain."

She bit her lip before taking her notebook. She wrote something down, and slowly held it up:

 _Butter on right side of the knife._

Sherlock smirked with satisfaction. "Yes, because he used it with his left hand. Very good, Harley."

Her shoulders slumped with relief, while John stared at her in fascination, putting a hand on her shoulder.

He turned back to face Dimmock, who looked confused as to why Harley had written down her answer instead of just speaking it. "You see that? Even a _child_ can see the signs. It's highly unlikely that a left-handed man would shoot himself in the right side of his head. Conclusion: someone broke in here and murdered him. _Only_ explanation of all the facts."

"But…but the gun, why…" Dimmock began, but Sherlock cut him off.

"He was waiting for the killer. He'd been threatened." He walked away, grabbed his coat and scarf, and started putting them on.

"What?" Dimmock asked, looking between all three of them.

"Today at the bank. Sort of a warning," John told him.

"He fired a shot when the attacker came in," Sherlock added, tying his scarf around his neck.

"And the bullet?"

"Went through the open window."

Dimmock laughed in disbelief. "Oh, come on! What are the chances of _that_?"

"Wait until you get the ballistics report. The bullet in his brain wasn't fired from his gun. I guarantee it."

"But if the door was locked from the inside…how did the killer get in?"

"Good," Sherlock said condescendingly, pulling on his gloves, "You're finally asking the _right_ questions." He turned to leave the flat, the Watsons catching up a few seconds later.

"So where are we going now?" John asked Sherlock when they had taken the lift down to the ground floor, exiting the apartment complex. Sherlock had been texting on his phone the whole way down.

"To see Sebastian— let him know what happened, and get more information on Van Coon."

John sighed and shook his head. "Okay, but after that, we're going straight home."

Sherlock looked up at him. "What? Why?"

John gave him his famous, _You are kidding, right?_ look. "Sherlock, my twelve-year-old niece just saw a body today. I think that's more than enough excitement in one day, let alone her lifetime, don't you think?"

"I told you, she's fine. In fact, she did a lot better than I anticipated."

"That's not the point, Sherlock. I need to think of what's best for her. I'm sure even _you_ understand that."

Sherlock glanced over from John to Harley. She was looking at her uncle with confliction, her lips scrunching up— like she was trying with all her might to say something in her defense…but something was holding her back. Then she caught Sherlock's gaze, her eyes widening slightly, and she looked away, her face blushing.

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed. _She really can't speak for herself, can she?_

After a long pause, he let out a deep breath and replied, "Very well."

* * *

 **A/N- Sorry if this ending seems a bit abrupt. It just seemed like the best place to stop for a moment, give y'all time to breathe.**

 **Again, I want to thank all who are liking the story so far and have left their review. They really lift my heart and give me the confidence to keep going. A lot of you really seem to like the relationship I'm building up between Harley and Sherlock. I'm touched. :)**

 **I'll try to write up the next chapter as fast as I can!**

 **Have a lovely day! Or night...whatever.**


	7. Putz's and Tea

**A/N- I've been pretty busy this week. My siblings and I are planning for my dad's birthday this weekend, and my mom got the stomach virus I had a week ago and I've been taking care of her. QUICK! KILL THE PARASITE BEFORE IT CAUSES AN EPIDEMIC!**

 **But no worries, I'm back now. Here, we dive a little deeper into the case, and we get some more bonding time between Harley and the boys. Who doesn't love that? :D**

 **Disclaimer: I only own my OC.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

Boy, did this day turn out to take a drastic turn. For better or for worse? Harley wasn't quite sure about that part yet.

And to think, this was originally supposed to be a simple trip to the bank. Talk about a change of pace.

Speaking of which, when Sherlock said that they were going to see Sebastian again (that name made her cringe the more she heard it), she thought that they were going back to the bank. But minutes after riding in a cab in complete silence, they pulled up outside of a rather expensive-looking restaurant. After paying the cabbie, they went in.

Inside, it was darkly lit and decorated in purple lights. It was like it was nighttime at all hours in there, with a very nice atmosphere. The smell of various foods caused Harley's stomach to growl, making her realize that she hadn't eaten since earlier that morning before they left. It was getting late.

Sherlock, as usual, led the way. They walked past the hostess up front and went towards a table in the middle of the big room. Seated at the table was Sebastian himself, chatting it up with people in suits — clients or colleagues, she wasn't sure — as they ate.

"…and he's left trying to cut his hair with a fork, which of course can never be done!" Sebastian was saying, causing the other men to laugh along with him as Sherlock and the Watsons finally walked up to their table. Harley stood behind the two men, away from their view.

"It was a threat," Sherlock spoke up, getting right to the point as Sebastian and his company looked up in surprise. "That's what the graffiti meant."

Sebastian's eyes flickered from his friends to Sherlock awkwardly. "I'm kind of in the middle of a meeting. Can you make an appointment with my secretary?" he asked, trying to keep up his smile, but the hint of annoyance was still there as he picked up his glass of water and took a drink.

"I don't think this can wait," Sherlock said lowly. "Sorry, Sebastian. One of your traders — someone who worked in your office — was killed."

Sebastian's face dropped. "What?"

"Van Coon. The police are at his flat," John told him.

"Killed?" Sebastian asked in disbelief.

"Sorry to interfere with everyone's digestion," Sherlock said sarcastically as he picked up a glass, looking around at everyone's now uncomfortable faces before locking his eyes back on Sebastian. "Still want to make an appointment? Would, maybe, nine o'clock at Scotland Yard suit?" He placed the glass back down on the table with a loud clang.

 _He really doesn't screw around, does he?_ Harley thought, eyeing the detective's intense face.

Sebastian apprehensively ran a finger along the inside of his suit collar before he excused himself from his table, hurriedly gesturing Sherlock to follow him so they would have this conversation in private. They followed him through the restaurant until Harley saw where they were headed: the bathrooms.

She stopped in her tracks. _No._ _No way. No way am I going to be stuck in a small room — a bathroom, no less — with_ that _guy. Talk about creeper alert._

As Sebastian started to enter the men's room, Harley quickly looked around until she spotted a bench nearby. Sherlock and John made to follow Sebastian into the bathroom, but stopped when they realized that Harley couldn't exactly come with them that time.

"Um, Harley…?" John turned, about to tell her to wait outside, only to find that she was already ahead of him. She sat down on the bench just across the way, crossing her ankles, her notebook in her lap. She looked up at them and motioned with her hand. _Go ahead. I can wait._

John nodded, and they went into the men's room to talk with Sebastian. When the door closed, her eyes raked over the many people (ninety-nine percent of them being adults) eating and enjoying themselves in the quiet restaurant, then she lowered her gaze to the floor in front of her and sighed.

It was actually a relief to sit down and be left alone for a while; it gave her the chance to just stop and reflect on all that had happened to her in the day.

 _So…I just saw a dead body and got involved in a crime scene investigation today. How are we_ really _feeling about that?_

When she and Sherlock had snuck into Van Coon's flat, she assumed they were going to find him alive and well, and question him about the message or something like that. She didn't consider the possibility that he'd end up dead. She'd be lying if she said that when she first saw his body, she didn't feel like she was going to be sick. After all, blood was oozing out of the side of his skull. But after grasping the image a moment later, she just felt so…numb. She didn't know _what_ to think or feel. It was like, sure, she felt bad that the man had died, but…what could she do about it?

 _Funny. We all know that death is coming for us one day, but when we see it happen to someone else, the reality of it hits us like a freight train._

When she felt Sherlock put his hands on her shoulders that time, she thought he was going to pull her out of the room. But surprisingly, he didn't. He actually made her feel better— in his own, weird way. The way he reassured her, it gave her the conception that this was just another experiment, except now, they're going to find out how the man was killed as the outcome. That was one way to look at it. At least, it was enough to snap her out of it. She was still a bit unsettled, but at least she could tolerate being in the room again.

And if there was ever a time to prove just how different Sherlock was from her uncle (and pretty much everyone else), it was right then, at the crime scene. Not only did he make her feel better about seeing a body, but he gave her the choice to stay if she wanted to, and he actually let her stay. She didn't even have to do her "puppy pout" trick on him like she had to do with John (though, with someone like him, it probably wouldn't have worked anyway). What's more, though, is that he seemed to genuinely want her to stay, and he let her help out a bit. Sure, he had taken her off guard when he did so, but nonetheless, he let her— he even stood up for her against the Detective Inspector. No one's ever done that for her before.

And the absolute craziest thing about today? There was a part of her that actually... _liked it._ When her uncle insisted on heading back to their flat when this meeting was done, she felt nothing but disappointment. She didn't want to go back just yet. She wanted to keep going, to see how all of this turned out.

She rubbed her eyes with resignation. _This day was just a roller coaster, wasn't it?_

"Oh, hello there."

An awfully familiar voice pulled her out of her deep state of thought. She removed her hands from her face and looked up to see the last person she wanted to be left alone with, standing before her. Sebastian. He had just stepped out of the bathroom, so whatever they were talking about in there must've been done with. Her uncle and Sherlock hadn't come out yet, though.

"You're that bloke's niece, aren't you?" Sebastian asked her with an artificial smile.

She kept her face steady as she stared at him, a feat almost impossible. _Yeah, and that bloke has a name, if you have enough brain cells to remember it._

His smile widened. "Oh, right. Sherlock said you were a mute."

She looked towards the ceiling. _And you just keep on talking. How unfortunate._

"So you do sign language, then? You know, to talk?" he asked her as though they were pals; his tone couldn't be any more patronizing.

 _Sure! I know a sign, and it involves the middle finger. It's simple, but it speaks volumes._

However, since they were in a public, very fancy place, she decided against doing so, instead lightly shaking her head no. He nodded. "Ah, so that explains that little notebook you're always carrying— like a little journalist, are you?"

Her eye twitched faintly. God, where was Sherlock and John? What was taking them so long? She wasn't sure how much longer she was going to last with this man.

"You know," he started, leaning in slightly as if about to tell a secret— in which Harley leaned back in kind, "Between you and me, your uncle's got a good head on his shoulders, and you seem like a bright girl. But if I were you and him, I wouldn't affiliate myself with Sherlock Holmes. He's a bit of a weirdo, that man, and…well, I think you see what I'm trying to get at."

 _You mean, insanely clever and more accomplished than you could ever hope to be in your life?_ Harley thought, eyes narrowing and brows knitting tighter with every word that came out of his lop-sided mouth.

"What do you think?" he asked, his eyes glancing down at her notebook, wanting her to write something for him.

She did not want to give him the satisfaction of even trying to communicate with him. But, seeing as it looked like he wasn't going to leave until she gave him an answer, it seemed she had no other choice.

After a moment's pause, she slowly wrote down an appropriate answer, and then held it up promptly to his face, glaring at him:

 _Putz._

That certainly wiped off any amount of smugness that was left on his face. She felt like cheering, though she was amazed he actually knew what that word meant.

Suddenly there was a noise equivalent to a snort just away from them. They looked over and saw Sherlock, who seemed to be trying to cover up a chuckle with a hand over his mouth, while John was trying to come off as disapproving toward his niece but he seemed to be having trouble holding back a smirk as well.

A twinge of pink appeared on Sebastian's usually pale face, his jaw twitching slightly. He cleared his throat and straightened up, looking down at Harley as he readjusted his tie. "I see. Have it your way, then, but don't say I didn't warn you."

Showing him that she didn't care, she swiftly ripped off the notebook page and offered it out for him to take, prodding it toward him. He scowled at her and walked off, making his way back to his table.

She shrugged and hopped off the bench, heading toward the two men waiting for her.

"Now, Harley, what did I tell you about manners?" John said sternly when she approached him.

Her eyes widened slightly as she pointed at herself. _Who, moi?_

"You know exactly what I mean, young lady…even if he is a bit of a jerk. Now come on, we're going back to Baker Street."

John started to lead the way out of the restaurant. She sighed and started to follow, but then Sherlock held his hand out to her. "I'll take that," he said, gesturing to the paper she was still holding.

She looked up to meet his humorous smile. "I'll sneak it into his desk next time I go to the bank. Perhaps he'll frame it once he sees the truth behind it," he told her, his smile widening as a mutual understanding passed between them: they both highly disliked that man for the same reasons.

She decided she rather liked that idea. Managing a small smile in return, she handed over the note, and together they left the restaurant to join John to hail a cab.

The sky had started to turn dark when they arrived back at Baker Street. They were greeted by Mrs. Hudson before trudging upstairs. She commented about how nice it was to see Harley out and about, spending time with the boys. Then she handed over a plate of biscuits to her, saying that she could just tell that she would be hungry and not taking no for an answer. She was right, of course.

Harley looked down at the biscuits and smiled slightly. Mrs. Hudson really was a sweet lady— like the grandmother she never had.

Once up in 221B, Sherlock had gotten right to work, taking his phone and hooking it up to his computer, intent on printing off the pictures he took of the graffiti from the bank. John went to sit at the desk, opening up his own laptop.

"Hey, Harley. Do you mind helping me with something?" John asked.

Curious, she went over to sit next to him, taking a bite of a biscuit. He had a clean Word document open on his computer.

"I have a job interview tomorrow at the clinic, and I need to write out my resume. You think you could assist me in writing it out? Maybe proofread and edit it for me?"

She gave him a deadpan look before writing: _You waited until the night before to write your resume? You're worse than a teenager studying for finals._

John chuckled. "In case you haven't noticed, we've been busy— running around, you know?"

"She should proofread and edit your blog while she's at it," Sherlock piped up, not looking up from his computer. "At least then it would be readable."

John cast him a deadly glare but said nothing.

 _Oh, touchy,_ Harley thought, but nonetheless, she agreed to help him out, the two of them huddled together in front of the computer screen.

The first part was easy; his name and address, and making it look presentable on the top of the page. Then there came his profile, basically telling a bit about himself. John listed off some things while Harley typed them down, her fingers flying over the keyboard keeping up with him. What she got so far was:

 _"A conscientious, reliable, and hardworking medical professional. Pays attention to details, crusader of clinical governance, with excellent interpersonal and time management skills. Seeking further training and experience in accident and emergency medicine while working towards a career in laparoscopic surgery."_

It was a bit sketchy for now, but it was a working progress.

Next were the educational qualifications, which John typed himself; then his GMC status, his membership of the Defense Union, then his employment history, and lastly: a list of his skills and proficiencies.

It took what seemed like hours to make it to where both she and John were equally satisfied with the way it was typed out; often taking breaks to eat or use the bathroom during the process until it was finally done.

 _Once they read this, they'll be begging on their knees for your services,_ Harley wrote down in her notes, finishing off the last of her ham sandwich as she sat back.

John smiled. "You think so?"

 _Definitely. Though, I still think we should add that you played the clarinet in school._

John shook his head. "I think that'll put them off more than gain their interest."

 _No way. You can put it in your extracurricular activity if they decide to add you into their underground band in the break room._

He snorted until he broke out into full-blown laughter, and Harley smiled.

Sherlock glanced up from the pictures he was studying, watching the uncle and niece in their little moment. He smirked, and then returned his gaze to his work.

They finished up and printed off two copies of his resume just in time. It was late, and Harley was exhausted from running around all day. She decided to turn in for the night. She kissed John's cheek before getting up to leave the room, and he said in turn, "Good night, Harley."

Then Sherlock's deep voice followed his, "Good night, Harley."

Harley's head perked up, and she looked over her shoulder at the detective in surprise. His eyes were still glued to the pictures. She blinked for a moment before turning back to head upstairs to her room, but she couldn't help the little smile that formed. She changed into her pajamas and crawled into bed. She fell asleep almost instantly.

Harley awoke the next morning to the sun's beams coming through her window. She squinted up out her window sleepily.

 _The sun rose up before I did. That's a first,_ she thought as she sat up and stretched. She switched from her pajamas to her jeans, white T-shirt and jumper and straightened herself up before grabbing her notebook and exiting her room. The door to John's bedroom was open when she walked past. She looked in and found that it was empty. John must've already left for his job interview, she guessed.

Rubbing her eyes awake more, she walked into the living room to find Sherlock sitting in one of the desk chairs, his hands steepled under his chin as he stared intently at the pictures taped around the mirror above the fireplace.

"You're up later than usual," Sherlock said upon hearing her entrance, not looking away from the photographs.

 _Yeah, surprised me too,_ she thought with a yawn and let out a sigh. She silently made her way into the kitchen and started to get some tea going. One of the many things she'd learned over the few days of staying at Baker Street was that Sherlock never ate on a case; it slows him down, according to him. However, he wasn't above having tea if you gave it to him. As the water in the kettle heated up, she made some toast with butter for herself. She finished with her toast just as the tea was boiling. She turned off the burner and got out two mugs, preparing the tea for her and Sherlock.

She returned to the living room, a steaming hot mug in each of her hands. She approached Sherlock and offered him the tea she made for him. His eyes moved to her.

"I didn't ask for tea," he muttered.

She just looked at him. _Yeah, what's your point here?_

He must've known what she was thinking — and realized that he was trying to argue with someone who couldn't exactly argue back — because after a brief staring contest between the two of them, he sighed and took the cup from her. Satisfied, she went to sit down in Sherlock's chair so that she could look at the pictures as well. Sherlock looked down at his cup before cautiously taking a sip. Then he frowned and looked up at Harley.

"How did you know I take two sugars with my tea?" he asked her curiously.

 _Because I've seen you do it before more than once, like how John never puts sugar in his,_ she thought, and wanted to write out for him, but her hands were full at the moment. So she just shrugged and took a drink of her own tea, letting the taste wake her up more.

"Well, it's, um…it's good," Sherlock said, quite hesitantly, as he took another sip.

The corner of her lips twitched upward as she nodded in thanks. Then she pointed up at the photographs with a raised eyebrow, wordlessly asking him if he had figured anything out about the symbols at the bank.

"Not yet," he said, catching on. "It appears to be a code— Van Coon obviously knew what it meant, but I don't know what it is yet."

She looked at the graffiti thoughtfully. The way it was written, the design— it seemed familiar somehow, but she couldn't recall from where exactly. _I'm sure he'll figure it out eventually,_ she mused, raising her cup to take another sip.

Suddenly, Sherlock turned to her. "Why don't you use sign language?" he asked.

She froze with her cup to her lips. Then she slowly lowered it as she stared back at him indifferently. _Oh, he heard the_ entire _one-sided conversation between me and Sebastian, didn't he?_

"You must admit, it would be a much more efficient way to communicate. You wouldn't have to write everything down, you know."

With that, her face scrunched up in mild annoyance. She put her cup down on the side table, grabbed her notebook, and scrawled quickly before tossing it to him:

 _I did try to learn sign language a couple of years ago, but I didn't pick up on it very well. I just ended up jumbling most of the signs together into gibberish. So, much like my therapy sessions, my mother just gave up when it went nowhere. And even if I did learn sign language, that would mean that everyone else would have to learn it to understand me. It's better_ this _way. Besides, I like it._

"Have you tried any other methods?" He handed her notebook back.

She thought for a moment. Then, her eyes lighting up, she started tapping her finger in quick, profound beats against the arm of her chair. Sherlock watched intensely before looking back up at her with narrowed eyes.

"You failed to pick up on sign language, yet you just said 'Hello' to me in Morse code. You know, that's an outdated and rather unnecessary form of communication."

 _Uncle John taught me,_ she wrote.

"And how is that reasonable?"

 _He's actually a good teacher, and doesn't yell at me when I mess up._

Sherlock had no response to that, surprisingly. After a moment, he simply let out a quiet hum and went back to studying the photos.

 _O-kaaay?_ she thought warily before picking up her tea again and shrugging it off.

The next several minutes, the two sat in companionable silence, drinking their tea, mulling over the photographs, or just thinking. It was nice, but it was eventually broken by the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. John came in through the door and tossed his jacket onto his chair.

"I said, 'Could you pass me a pen?'" Sherlock said suddenly, not tearing is gaze from the wall.

At first, both John and Harley were confused. Harley didn't remember him asking her that. So that only left John.

"What? When?" John asked.

"About an hour ago."

John sighed in exasperation. "Didn't notice I'd gone out then," he mumbled as he picked up a pen from the table and tossed it Sherlock's way without even looking, in which Sherlock caught it without even looking either.

 _Whoa,_ she thought, amazed by what she had just witnessed. _That, my friends, is teamwork._

"And why didn't you just ask Harley? She's sitting right there," John said as he stepped closer to fireplace to get a better look at the pictures.

"She was still asleep," Sherlock answered dismissively.

 _And bless you for not interrupting it._

John just shook his head with a sigh before going back to the pictures. "Well, I went to see about that job at that surgery."

"How was it?" Sherlock asked, though he sounded disinterested.

"It's great….she's great," John answered absently.

That caused Sherlock and Harley to turn their heads toward him. "Who?" Sherlock questioned, voicing both their curiosity.

John looked back at both of them, realizing what he had said. "The job," he corrected himself quickly.

"She?"

"… _It_."

Sherlock and Harley shared a look of suspicion.

 _Sheesh, leave it to John to pick up a chick at his own interview. I bet he didn't even have to use his resume to get the job,_ Harley thought drily.

"Yeah, have a look," Sherlock said, changing the subject, inclining his head toward his open laptop on the desk behind him.

John went over to see what was on his computer. Interested, Harley got up and looked over his shoulder to see as well. It was a current article on the "Online News" website, the headline reading, "Ghostly killer leaves a mystery for police." Next to the heading was a picture of a bald, plump man, and underneath the picture was the short article that read:

" _An intruder who can walk through walls murdered a man in his London apartment last night. Brian Lukis, 41, a freelance journalist from Earl's Court was found shot in his fourth floor flat but all his doors and windows were locked and there were no apparent signs of a break in. A police spokesman said they are still uncertain how the assailant broke in..."_

"The intruder who can walk through walls…?" John read softly.

"Happened last night," Sherlock explained. "Journalist shot dead in his flat. Doors locked, windows bolted from the inside— exactly the same as Van Coon."

 _Oh, no,_ Harley thought with realization.

"God," John breathed as he straightened. "You think…?"

"He's killed another one," Sherlock confirmed in a whisper.

John and Harley looked at each other in concern.

 _Well…crap._

* * *

 **A/N- For those who are curious:**

 ** _Putz_ : (n) 1) A stupid or worthless person. 2) Someone who doesn't pay attention to anything going on. **

**...Though, I hear in some cultures, it can also be vulgar slang for penis...and I find that to be even more hilarious in this case. No one disses Sherlock. XD**

 **Someone once asked me why Harley doesn't use sign language. I hope this clears it up. But hey, she knows Morse code! I like to think that she and John often talk about people right in front of them in Morse code just for a laugh.**


	8. A Killer Who Can Walk Through Walls

**A/N- *pops up from underneath the desk* Hello, lads and lassies! Back for more already? Well, here. Take it and like it! Or don't, your choice.**

 **Disclaimer: I only own my OC. If I owned Sherlock...you'd probably _still_ have to wait two years for new episodes because I'm a black belt at procrastinating.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

"I still don't know how you managed to convince me to bring Harley along… _again_ ," John grumbled for the umpteenth time as they drove through the London streets later that morning.

"Because you'd be leaving her at the flat to fend for herself because Mrs. Hudson is over at Mrs. Turner's today, whereas she could be useful here," Sherlock answered offhandedly. "I fail to see why you insist on repeating this conversation."

Meanwhile, Harley sat in the middle between the two men, feeling like she was watching a tennis game back and forth…and kind of feeling like a third wheel. She hardly found herself being useful at the moment, other than Sherlock had given her the duty of holding his laptop to take to Scotland Yard.

 _Yeah, so useful,_ she thought wryly.

"It'd still be better than you dragging her along on one of your crazy, not to mention sometimes dangerous chases," said John.

"We're just going to the Yard, John. Honestly," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.

"And after that?"

A pause. "…Brian Lukis' flat, if we can convince Dimmock."

John threw his head back in exasperation.

"It's not like his body's going to be there this time, John," Sherlock argued before John could say anything. "Besides, you don't hear her complaining, do you?"

That caused both the Watsons to look at him with serious expressions.

 _Oi, wrong choice of words there, buddy,_ she thought.

Sherlock sighed. "You know what I mean."

John turned his head and looked out his window, muttering to himself but dropping the subject for now. Harley looked away as well, shaking her head. Of course she knew what he meant, and in a way, he was right. She really wasn't complaining. In fact, she actually got kind of excited when he told her to get ready before they left. She found that quite curious. He didn't ask her if she wanted to come; he practically _ordered_ her to, like he knew she wanted to come so he just told her so without bothering to ask, despite John's protests. And so she did.

And that was how Harley ended up in the back of a cab in the middle of the morning once again, most likely diving headfirst into another misadventure with her uncle and the consulting detective — the killer who can walk through walls had struck again.

This was certainly going to be quite a story to tell when she's asked to write an essay about her holiday at school.

Several minutes later, they pulled up in front of New Scotland Yard, which was a large business-like building consisting mostly of windows for walls, the metal sign out front revolving around. _Cool,_ Harley thought as they jumped out of the cab and went in. She had never been to Scotland Yard before, but has heard of it countless times. This was going to be interesting. She didn't really have time to admire the place, though, because Sherlock practically ran through the building, hardly slowing down. John and Harley had to jog to try and keep up with him, Harley keeping his laptop firmly tucked under her arm so she wouldn't drop it. She barely had time to process the many police officers who sent them odd looks as they rushed by.

A few floors up, they finally caught back up with him, where he was already pestering Detective Inspector Dimmock at his desk. Knowing he wasn't going to wait any longer, she pulled out his laptop and handed it over to him. He logged in and went back to the online news article from earlier. Dimmock crossed his arms in annoyance as he watched.

"Brian Lukis, freelance journalist. Murdered in his flat…." Sherlock said as he swiftly turned the laptop around to show the scowling DI. "Doors locked from the inside."

"You've gotta admit, it's similar," John added. "Both men killed by someone who can…" he hesitated momentarily as if unable to believe what he was going to say next, "…walk through solid walls."

Naturally, Dimmock sent a disbelieving look John's way.

 _Who you gonna call?_ Harley thought.

"Inspector, do you seriously believe that Van Coon was just another city suicide?" Sherlock asked. When Dimmock only squirmed in his seat, not meeting his eyes, he looked up and sighed in exasperation. "You _have_ seen the ballistics report, I suppose?"

Dimmock finally looked up at him, his jaw tight. He nodded.

"And the shot that killed him, was it fired from his own gun?"

"No," the DI answered reluctantly.

"No. So, this investigation might move a bit quicker, if you were to take my word as gospel," Sherlock snapped at him.

There was a moment of silence as Dimmock shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Harley wanted to feel sorry for the man, but come _on_ , how much more proof did he need that these guys were getting offed? Plus he tried to kick her out of the crime scene. Big no-no.

Sherlock leaned forward over the desk and said quietly but intensely to his face, "I've just handed you a murder enquiry." He nodded down at the article of Lukis, speaking at normal volume again but his tone still just as firm, "Five minutes, in his flat."

With a deep sigh, the Detective Inspector relented in his stubbornness and followed them out of the station, taking his own police car while Sherlock and the Watsons hailed another cab. They soon arrived at Brian Lukis' flat, ducking under the yellow police tape at the bottom of the stairs. Lukis' flat was not nearly as nice as Van Coon's was; it was more congested and cluttered. Harley was careful not to knock down the many books stacked unceremoniously to the side of the staircase as they went up.

When they entered the room, the first thing she noticed was the open suitcase on the floor just to the side. Harley frowned. _Wait…didn't Van Coon have a suitcase out in his flat too?_ And if that wasn't enough of a coincidence, nearby the suitcase there was a small, black paper flower— exactly like the one Sherlock pulled out of Van Coon's mouth. More books were everywhere on the desks and shelves, newspapers scattered all over the floor. Lukis having been a journalist, it wasn't very surprising, though.

But what Harley didn't understand was why he was killed in a similar fashion as Van Coon— someone who worked at an investment bank. They had no connection career-wise. Did they know each other somehow? She didn't think so. And again, how were they killed if there seemed to be no other way in?

Sherlock strode over through the kitchen, going to the window and looking out through the curtain. "Four floors up," he said with a smirk, " _That's_ why they think they're safe. Put a chain across the door and bolt it shut; think they're impregnable." He turned back and walked into the middle of the room, looking around the room once more. "They don't reckon for one second that there's another way in."

Harley glanced at him inquisitively. So he was wondering the same thing too. She looked around this flat more closely, trying to find out if there was another way of entry that they missed. Everything seemed bolted shut, locked tight. Then she turned and walked a few paces until she stood in the doorway to the staircase again. Her gaze lifted until it landed on the skylight in the angled ceiling just above the landing. The only thing attached to it was a prop to keep it open on a nice day. No bolts. No lock.

She squinted. _Wait, could that…?_ She gasped. _It could!_

She whirled around to get Sherlock's attention, only to find him looking up at the skylight as well. He caught her gaze, his eyes widening slightly, and then he smiled.

 _Yes, he sees it too!_

Without a word, they rushed out the door onto the landing.

"I- I don't understand," Dimmock said as they darted past him.

"We're dealing with a killer who can climb," Sherlock explained as they stopped underneath the skylight. Sherlock stepped on one of the boxes to get closer to the window. Harley watched from underneath him.

"What are you doing?" Dimmock asked as he and John looked on.

"He clings to the walls like an insect," Sherlock told him. He pushed on the latch, opening the window upwards. "That's how he got in."

"What?!" Dimmock asked, looking between Sherlock and Harley in disbelief.

"Climbed up the side of the walls, ran along the roof, dropped in through this skylight."

Harley took in the size of the skylight window, the length and width. Whoever had snuck in would've had to have been small, like her, to fit through, and very light on their feet if they were able to come in undetected.

"You're not serious! Like Spiderman?!" Dimmock exclaimed.

Harley stared pointedly at him. _Seriously, what is your problem, man?_

Sherlock turned to look at him as well. "He scaled six floors of a Docklands apartment building and jumped a balcony to kill Van Coon," he insisted.

"Oh, ho- hold on!" Dimmock laughed in disbelief.

"And of course, that's how he got into the bank. He ran along the window ledge and onto the terrace."

Harley thought back to when they were in Sir William's office at the bank. She had a theory that perhaps there was the slight chance that the person had climbed up and came in through the window, but had dismissed it. So that meant…

"Yes, Harley," a voice brought her back to the present. She looked up at Sherlock, who stared back down at her. "You were right."

She blinked, then instantly looked away. He…saw her looking?

Sherlock stepped off the box, Harley backing up to give him more space, and he looked around again. "We have to find out what connects these two men," he muttered, mostly to himself. His eyes then fell on the pile of books on the staircase, his gaze sharpening as he spotted something. He jumped down a few steps and picked up one particular book — a red hardback novel — that had been left open on the front page. Harley took a peek at the book and saw that there was a stamp on the front page marking that it was from the West Kensington Library. Sherlock then slammed the book shut, tucked it under his arm, and started to head out. Harley and John quickly followed suit, knowing they now had a new lead. Harley wasn't sure what they would find at this library to help find out who killed the victims, but she figured that it was better than nothing.

Luckily, the West Kensington Library wasn't that far from Lukis' flat. A short cab ride later, they had pulled up to the library and went in.

The second Harley did so, the first thing that went through her head was, _Oh…my…God._

Having only been limited to her small, scarcely funded school and local library where she lived, the West Kensington Library was by far the biggest, most impressive library Harley has ever set foot into. Books, of every genre; everywhere she looked….and there was more than one floor of them!

 _Am I dead? Because I think I've just entered heaven!_

John looked over at his niece and laughed at her star-struck expression as they rode the escalator up to the next floor. "Now, Harley. We're not here for browsing," he joked. "Just promise me you won't take off here, never to be seen again?"

Harley looked at him flatly as they made it to the top. She took her notebook and wrote for him:

 _Sure thing, Uncle…if_ you _promise not to try and get off with the lady at the information desk._

John frowned at the note, then looked at her sourly. "Touché," he said slowly.

She smirked.

"If you two are done with your bantering now…" Sherlock called back impatiently as he continued to walk briskly across the floor toward the desk ahead. Harley and John sent each other a mock glare before catching up with him. Sherlock opened the book to the front page, running the bar code under the scanner. Then the computer next to it showed where the book was categorized under, which section it belonged in at the library, and when it was last checked out, which was yesterday. They left the desk and started going down one of the many aisles of shelves.

"Date stamped on the book is the same day that he died," Sherlock said, checking the reference number on the spine of the book before he stopped, looked up, and started taking out books from the shelf nearest him.

Harley had seen the reference number herself, and as someone who spent most of her free time away from other people in the confines of a library — learning how the basic system worked over the years — the only thing that she thought as she watched Sherlock take out the books was, _Psh! Amateur._

Shaking her head, she turned to John and pointed at a row of books three shelves up just across the way on the opposite side of the aisle where Sherlock was searching; spotting the reference numbers on the spine that was closer to the one they found in Lukis' flat.

"You sure?" John asked her.

She scowled at him. _Are you testing me, boy?_

John put his hands up in surrender at her look, and they started taking out books by the handful on the shelf. When they did, they were instantly greeted by a familiar bright yellow color curved in a certain design on the back wall of the shelf.

"Sherlock," John called.

The sleuth came over to them and, seeing the splash of yellow, he pulled out as many books as he could with one hand and handed some of them over to Harley, revealing more of the paint. They were the exact same symbols that they had found in Sir William's office at the bank. Sherlock immediately took out his phone and started snapping pictures of it, staring intently at it as if trying to make out what it could mean.

 _And so the plot thickens,_ Harley thought ominously.

Once Sherlock was finished, they placed the books back where they found them (by Harley's insistence. _What, were you raised in a barn? Show the librarians some decency!_ ) and they left the library. They ended up heading back to Baker Street. Once in 221B, Sherlock went straightway to his laptop after Harley handed it back over to him, downloading the pictures from his phone and printing them off before adding them to the growing collage around the mirror on the wall. Sherlock and John had taken their coats off. Harley, however, kept her jacket on. She had a sinking feeling that they weren't going to stay for very long. From the way she's seen how things operated around here, once Sherlock gets another lead, they most likely were going to charge off again. Best not to get too comfortable, if that was the case.

The three of them stood together in front of the fireplace, staring at the photographs on the wall.

"So, the killer goes into the bank, leaves a threatening cipher for Van Coon. Van Coon panics, returns to his apartment, locks himself in. Hours later, he dies," Sherlock explained.

John spoke up next, in a softer tone, "The killer finds Lukis at the library. He writes the cipher on the shelf, where he knows it'll be seen. Lukis goes home…"

"And later that night, he dies too," Sherlock finished.

Harley tilted her head to the side, eyeing the pictures fixedly. What astounded her the most was how the killer knew exactly where to put those symbols where their target would easily see it. How did they know Van Coon would see the cipher from all the way across the trading floor on that painting? How did they know Lukis would pick out a book on that precise shelf where he'd find it? And again, what connected these two men, and why were they killed for it?

"Why did they die, Sherlock?" John asked in a whisper, unknowingly voicing Harley's thoughts.

"Only the cipher can tell us," Sherlock answered. He ran his finger along a photo of the symbols and tapped it a few times pensively. Suddenly, his gaze sharpened. He turned and started to put on his long black coat again, intent on taking off.

 _And there it is._

John sighed and proceeded to put on his own coat. Harley just stood by the door, waiting for them.

"Already catching on, are we?" Sherlock remarked, eyeing her.

Her lips quirked as she nodded. _Ee-yup!_

John shook his head with a groan, as if thinking, _Dear God, what did I just get my niece into?_

But she didn't care. She was actually having fun, if anyone could believe that. She wanted to solve this mystery now. She followed the boys downstairs. Yet another cab ride later, she suddenly found herself walking through the crowded center of Trafalgar Square, heading for the National Gallery. Harley had been there already once, on her second day with her uncle. So this was going to be a treat, coming a second time to see how this would help with the case.

"The world's run on codes and ciphers, Watsons," Sherlock explained to them as they strode through the square, passing fountains and marble statues. "From the million-pound security system at the bank, to the PIN machine you took exception to…" Harley nudged John playfully in the ribs at that, and John shot her a look. "…cryptography inhabits our every waking moment."

Harley couldn't help but agree. It seemed everything about the world today and their very lives seemed to be stored in a vast computer system, leaving no secrets, no stone unturned. It sounded unsettling when you put it in that perspective. Maybe that was one reason she found solace in reading paper-bound books; they never put her out there or judged. They just told a story or taught information. Simple as that.

"Yes, okay, but…" John trailed off, and Sherlock finished for him.

"…But it's all computer-generated. Electronic codes, electronic ciphering methods. This is different. It's an ancient device. Modern code-breaking methods won't unravel it."

"Where are we headed?" John questioned as they climbed up the steps toward the National Gallery.

"I need to ask some advice," Sherlock answered, rather reluctantly, like he had to struggle with admitting it.

"What? Sorry?" John asked, smiling in disbelief.

Sherlock sent a dark look his way. "You heard me perfectly. I'm not saying it again."

"You need advice?"

"On painting, yes. I need to talk to an expert," he told them as he led them to the entrance of the gallery. However, instead of entering the large building, he swerved and started to lead them around the building until they reached the abandoned rear of the building— well, not _completely_ abandoned. There was one person there, and Sherlock walked straight up to him. It was a young man in street clothes, a teenager by the looks of it — maybe a few years older than Harley — who was spray painting an impressive-looking stencil art on a large metal door with spray-paint cans in both hands. At his feet was a canvas bag filled with even more used paint cans. The image he was creating was a policeman with a pig's nose and a rifle in his hands. Underneath the artwork was a tag, "RAZ". Probably the name he went by.

"Part of my new exhibition," he said as they approached him, putting the finishing touches to his work.

"Interesting," Sherlock said, with hardly any interest, as he reached into his pocket for his phone. Harley went to stand next to him, getting a good look at the graffiti.

"I call it, 'Urban Bloodlust Frenzy,'" the young man said with a proud chuckle.

"Catchy," John commented.

 _Porco Rosso has become what he despised the most. 'Tis a dark day for all of us,_ Harley thought gravely, but nonetheless, she couldn't help but admire the effort and talent put into it. The boy was an artist— a vandalism artist, but an artist nevertheless.

"I've got two minutes before a Community Support Officer comes round that corner," said Raz, turning to Sherlock. "Can we do this while I'm working?"

Sherlock held out his phone to him, the pictures already on the screen. Raz tossed one of his spray-paint cans to John, who caught it out of reflexes, and took Sherlock's phone.

"Know the author?" Sherlock asked as Raz started scrolling through the pictures.

"Recognize the paint," Raz said. "It's like Michigan; hardcore propellant. I'd say zinc."

Harley's eyebrows rose, impressed that he knew what kind of paint the killer had used.

"What about the symbols? Do you recognize them?" Sherlock inquired.

Raz squinted at the photos. "Not even sure it's a proper language."

Sherlock looked around once before saying lowly, "Two people have been murdered, Raz. Deciphering this is the key to finding out who killed them."

"What, and this is all you've got to go on?" Raz said with a shrug. "It's hardly much now, is it?"

"Are you going to help us or not?" Sherlock asked in slight annoyance.

Raz licked his lips before answering, "I'll ask around."

"Somebody _must_ know something about it."

"OI!" someone suddenly barked from down the way. Harley jumped about a foot in the air in surprise, and she saw two uniformed officers rounding the corner and hurrying toward them. At first, she was frozen with panic. _Oh, no. We're in trouble._

But then a hand grabbed hold of her wrist and yanked her into a sprint in the other direction. The force of it caused her to drop her notebook in the process, leaving it behind.

 _Ah! No!_

Harley almost fought against the consulting detective, trying to plant her feet and wrench herself free to go back for it, but Sherlock kept a strong grip on her as he pulled her along through the back way. In the end, she gave up and just kept running, not looking back, the only goal being to get away from those cops now. They continued running even after they had gotten far enough away from the Gallery, pedestrians jumping out of their way as they raced past, his coat and her scarf flailing in the wind behind them.

Eventually they rounded a corner and slowed to a stop. Sherlock finally let her go as they leaned back against the wall, catching their breath. Once Sherlock had caught his, he started laughing, having found the chase rather thrilling. He looked down at Harley, who was still breathing rather heavily. He was about to say something, but then he noticed her twitching hands, and he realized what was missing — why she had tried to go back at first.

"Oh, your notebook. It…" he started, but trailed off; for she had held a hand up as she closed her eyes, taking a deep breath, like she was digging down deep for any amount of patience she had left.

Shaking her head, she took her backpack and reached in, pulling out another clean notebook and a pen. Luckily for him, she had better prepared herself for the worst earlier that morning. So she brought along spare supplies in case something like this happened. However, she still couldn't help but feel like she had lost a part of herself when she dropped that first book.

She tucked her pen behind her ear and stared levelly at Sherlock, daring him to say something demeaning.

Sherlock looked down at his phone, contemplating for a moment, before putting his phone in his pocket and looking back up at her. "Got your breath back?"

She nodded, her face still stoic.

"Back to Baker Street, then. We've got all the information we are able to get at the moment." With that, he started to lead her out of the alley they had taken residence in and out into the busy streets of London. Harley followed along behind, a little slower than usual. The adrenaline coursing through her body had died down, but her nerves still felt shot. Now that things have finally slowed down, she couldn't help but still feel like she was missing something, and it wasn't her last notebook.

Then she stopped abruptly and looked around as she discovered what was missing: her uncle. Everything had happened so fast and in a blur, she had forgotten that John wasn't with them anymore.

She ran up to Sherlock, who was about to hail a cab, and grabbed on his coat to get his attention. She flipped open her notebook and wrote down hastily:

 _Where's John?_

Sherlock's gaze flickered at the direction they came running from, then back at her. He shrugged. "Don't know. He must've lost us on the way."

Harley raised her eyebrows. Just lost us? What if he had gotten caught? What if he couldn't find his way back?

Sherlock must've seen the confliction in her eyes, because a second later, he told her, "I wouldn't worry too much about it. He'll find his way back — he always does."

Harley was still a bit uncertain, but it was all she had to go on for now, and she nodded. After a moment of awkward silence, she wrote: _So, this kind of thing happens often for you guys?_

"Of course," he answered, just as a cab pulled up in front of them. Then he flashed her a grin. "But that just makes it more fun, doesn't it?"

She didn't respond that time, looking skyward before they got into the cab and drove off. She snuck a glance over at the detective once a few minutes into the silent ride, who was once again engrossed in his phone. It wasn't until his eyes snapped up at her a minute later did she finally look away, turning to gaze out her window at the buildings passing by.

She let out a tired breath, beginning to wonder herself what she had gotten herself into.

 _Oh, great. I'm starting to think like John now. How disturbing._

* * *

 **A/N- My dad makes a living by mixing chemicals together to create paint, and as an artist myself, I too dabble in paint, and how to make certain colors the way I want them. So yes, I do find pride in myself by knowing precisely what kind of paint Raz is talking about. *smugness overpowers***

 **Thank you to everyone who have favorited, followed, reviewed, or is just along for the ride so far! Love ya! CIAO! *leaves a me-shaped cloud of dust behind as I run off into the sunset***


	9. A Day in Chinatown

**A/N- You'll have to forgive me. I still haven't quite come down from my Jurassic high from last weekend. I watched Jurassic World with my siblings, and it...was...AWESOME! I loved it, and I would really like to go see it again on the big screen! Yep, nothing beats a bunch of CG dinosaurs eating people, am I right? And as an added bonus, it had Star Lord in it.**

 **Wait...what? You don't know who that is? Come on! Star Lord, man!**

 **Disclaimer: I only own my OC...and my geek pride.**

 **Hold on to your butts...and enjoy!**

* * *

Harley went over to the window, looking out at Baker Street for the fourth time, then turned back and walked away a few paces. It had been almost an hour since they had returned from escaping the police, and John still had yet to come back.

To say that Harley was a bit concerned would be an understatement.

"Constantly checking outside won't make him come any faster, you know," Sherlock said without looking at her, studying the collage on the wall.

 _Yeah, but I can try, can't I?_ she thought anxiously, but in the end she just shrugged and let it go. He had a point, and she probably shouldn't be worrying. John was a soldier as well as a doctor, after all. He was more than capable of taking care of himself. But she couldn't help it. John was still her uncle. It was practically her job to worry about him sometimes.

With a sigh, she went over to the other side of the room and, glancing cautiously at Sherlock first, she sat down beside him and looked up at the photos as well.

Not even two seconds after sitting, he spoke up, "What do you make of it?"

She tensed, frowning in confusion. What did she make of what? The symbols? Or the case in general? And furthermore, why was he asking _her_? He was the detective here. Was he just messing with her? If so, that was just wrong.

"Well?" he pressed, eyes on her now.

 _Oh, he's serious,_ she thought nervously. She did have some ideas, but she wasn't very confident about whether she should share them. She didn't want to feel like an idiot if she messed up or got anything wrong.

She shook her head at him, hoping that would be enough for him to drop it. It wasn't.

"No. I know you have some idea, and I often find an outsider's opinion quite useful," Sherlock insisted. He inclined his head down at her notebook. "Now tell me."

 _An outsider, huh? That sounds about right,_ she thought with resignation.

Pressing her lips together, she looked down at the floor, considering what she should write down for him. Figuring he wasn't keen on waiting for any longer, she hesitantly started writing the first thing that came to mind about the symbols:

 _The symbols look familiar to me, like something I've read from a book a while back, but I can't exactly place where. You're right, though. They're ancient, which explains why we can't decipher them so far with modern methods. It looks like a foreign enigma. Asian, perhaps?_

Sherlock stared at her note, humming thoughtfully. His eyes glanced back up at her. "Anything else?"

Her brain racked with everything she had seen so far about this case. Then, remembering something, she wrote:

 _Both Van Coon and Lukis had suitcases out in the open in their flats, right?_

Sherlock's eyes brightened at her question, and he turned to face her fully. "Yes. What do you think that indicates?"

 _They both had been away for some time— out of the country, even. On business._

"Yes. And then what?" he encouraged.

She thought for a moment, then wrote: _Maybe they both saw something while they were away? Something they probably weren't supposed to see?_

She paused, then added: _But I still don't know what, or why they were killed for it. Or who is killing them other than it's someone who knew them specifically somehow with a calling card: that black paper flower. That's all I have so far….Sorry._

Sherlock read the note, then looked up at her with a scrutinizing frown. "Why are you sorry?"

At first, she herself was uncertain how to answer that. Then she responded: _I know it's not very much help to go on, if at all._

At that, Sherlock's look of confusion turned into one of amusement. "It's still loads more than what those idiots at Scotland Yard have. They're still under the impression that Van Coon committed suicide."

She shrugged lightly. _True,_ she thought, recalling Dimmock and his reluctance to believe that the two deaths were connected. The stubborn idjit.

"Besides," Sherlock continued, "you hardly had a high bar set for you when I asked you anyway. I can't expect you to get everything, especially for your age." Then, after a brief moment of silence, he added quietly, "And as far as this case goes, you're not very far off, actually."

She blinked, unsure how to react to that. This was just like when they were in Van Coon's flat, when he had her point out the final proof that the victim was left-handed, and again in Lukis' flat, when he told her that she was correct in assuming that the killer was a climber. She wasn't really used to praise of any sort — or being noticed so much, is more like it. It was all new to her.

She turned away from him to stare back up at the pictures, subtly dropping the subject. He seemed to get the point that time, and he stood up and went over to the fireplace, busying himself with looking up various pictograms and ciphers in a book that could possibly match the photographs. Harley simply sat where she was, watching him getting lost in his work.

Minutes later, the front door downstairs suddenly slammed. Harley winced at the booming noise before she stood up with anticipation. That had to be John. Sure enough, after coming up the stairs loudly, he entered the living room.

"You've been a while," Sherlock said, not looking up.

Harley was about to go over to him in greeting and check if he was alright, but stopped when she saw him properly. His shoulders were rigid, his fists clenched tight, and his face contorted as if trying to control himself with difficulty, but eventually he'd snap. All these signs led to one clear conclusion: he was pissed off. And not like _annoyed-with-the-chip-and-PIN-machine-because-it's-not-working_ pissed off. When he was that kind of mad, it was amusing. Oh, no. _This_ was different. This time, he was righteously furious. And Harley didn't like that one bit.

At Sherlock's comment, John stopped in the middle of the room, blinking and licking his lips as he fought a losing battle against his anger. He turned to Sherlock. "Yeah, well, you know how it is. Custody sergeants don't really like to be hurried, do they?" he asked witheringly with a smile-grimace, starting to pace a bit.

Harley backed away slowly. _Oh, crap-berries. He's smiling. He's reached that point._

"Just formalities," John continued, his voice strained, "Fingerprints, charge sheet, and I've gotta be in Magistrates Court on Tuesday."

"What?" Sherlock asked him, clearly not paying as much attention or taking notice of his flatmate's anger.

That was when John snapped, causing Harley to take a quick step back, startled. "Me, Sherlock! In court, on Tuesday! They're giving me an ASBO!"

"Good, fine," Sherlock said nonchalantly.

"You wanna tell your little pal he's welcome to go and own up anytime," John told him tightly as he started to pace again. Harley swallowed. She wanted to go and comfort him, but truthfully, she didn't want to be near him when he was this mad. She never liked seeing people get properly angry. It was like trying to handle a time bomb. Try to mess with it too much, and it might go off, and people could get hurt.

Sherlock slammed his book shut. "This symbol— still can't place it," he muttered to himself. He put the book down, turned, and walked over to John, who had started to take his jacket off. Sherlock swiftly pulled his jacket back onto his shoulders. "No, I need you to go to the police station…"

"Oi, oi, oi!" John exclaimed indignantly as Sherlock turned him around and steered him back towards the door.

"…ask about the journalist."

"Oh, Jesus," John breathed in exasperation as Sherlock grabbed his own coat and put it on. Harley hurriedly took her jacket and backpack and put them on as well, grabbing her notebook.

"His personal effects will have been impounded. Get ahold of his diary, or something that will tell us his movements," Sherlock said as he walked past John, leading them downstairs and out into the street. "Gonna go see Van Coon's PA. If we retrace their steps, somewhere they'll coincide," he finished explaining as he put on his gloves. He was about to walk down the street, but then turned back to Harley, who had stayed behind with John. "Are you coming?" he asked with an eyebrow raised.

Harley frowned in confusion, and John looked a bit surprised himself at his offer. She pointed at her uncle, wordlessly asking him why he wanted her to go with him instead.

"It's your choice, but I'm assuming you'd prefer not to have another run-in with Dimmock again at the Yard," he said.

For a moment, she contemplated what he had said. That was one reason, yes. But it was also because, if she was being completely honest with herself, she didn't want to be with John when he was still irritated from earlier. She'd be uncomfortable the whole time.

She looked up at John with pleading eyes, mentally asking for his permission to go.

John just shook his head and waved a hand. "Fine, go ahead," he said with defeat.

 _Huh. Apparently, a peeved John is a more cooperative one. Note to self._

Managing a crooked half-smile, she squeezed his hand. Then she turned and ran up to Sherlock, falling into step with him as they walked down the sidewalk, approaching a waiting cab. They got in, and they were on their way. Harley looked back once to see her uncle get into a taxi of his own on his way to Scotland Yard, hoping that she had made the right decision.

"He'll be fine," Sherlock said. "He can retrace Lukis' steps well on his own." Then he added in a low tone, "You Watsons, always worrying."

Harley quickly spun back around to face forward. That was just so weird, how he always just knew what was on her mind sometimes without her even mentioning anything. She took her notebook and wrote down a message for him:

 _You said we were going to see Van Coon's PA. So we're headed back to the bank, then?_

"Obviously," he answered.

She made a face, and added below the previous note:

 _As long as we don't run into Sebastian again, I'm perfectly happy with that. Otherwise, I'm going to curse him out the whole time we're there._

Sherlock smiled, allowing a small chuckle to escape his lips. "No need to see him again for the time being, no," he assured her.

She sat back in the seat with relief and turned to look out the window. Sherlock smirked at her and looked out his own window as well. They fell into a comfortable silence as they rode through traffic and pulled up to Shad Sanderson Bank. Sherlock paid the cabbie and the two of them headed inside. This time, they didn't even bother making themselves known at the reception desk. They walked straight to the lifts and rode up to the trading floor, making their way to Van Coon's office. They met up with Van Coon's personal assistant, whose name was Amanda— a really pretty woman with blond hair that was pulled up to keep out of her eyes, and wearing a nice business suit: a white jacket over a black blouse and a black pencil skirt.

After going through quick introductions and explanations, Amanda pulled up Van Coon's online calendar on his computer for them to see.

"Flew back from Dalian Friday," Amanda told them, her eyes skimming over the calendar. "Looks like he had back-to-back meetings with the sales team."

"Can you print us off a copy?" Sherlock asked.

"Sure." Amanda nodded as she did so accordingly.

Sherlock pointed at the day on the calendar that he died, where there seemed to be no entries on that day. "What about the day he died? Can you tell us where he was?"

Amanda studied it briefly with a frown before looking up at him. "Sorry, bit of a gap."

Sherlock breathed out heavily through his nose, clearly frustrated.

Then Amanda's mouth opened, her eyes widening slightly as she thought of something.

"I have all of his receipts," she proclaimed, pointing at a file case behind the desk. "Hold on, I'll go get them for you."

As Amanda went to go receive them, Sherlock and Harley looked at each other, and they were both thinking the same thing. Why would Van Coon not have any meetings— or anything for that matter— logged onto the day he happened to be killed?

* * *

John stood in front of Dimmock's desk at New Scotland Yard, watching as the Detective Inspector in question rummaged through a box of Brian Lukis' personal belongings. John wasn't exactly having a good day at the moment, even though it started out great having met Sarah and getting the job at the clinic. But of course, it _had_ to go downhill from there, having been arrested by the Community Support Officers who thought he was the one who vandalized the building instead of Raz. He tried to explain that it wasn't him, but naturally, they didn't listen. So he had to go through the finger prints take, charge sheets, a court date, and of course, the ASBO. And if that wasn't enough to set him on edge, he had returned home only to have Sherlock run him off on another one of his little errands to Scotland Yard.

He sighed irritably. Why can't he have a normal day for once?

"Your friend…" Dimmock began, breaking the silence.

"Listen," John cut him off before he finished that sentence, "whatever you say, I'm behind you one hundred percent."

"He's an arrogant sod," Dimmock said promptly.

John's eyes darted around awkwardly before landing back on him. "Well, that was mild! People say a lot worse than that."

Dimmock looked up at him. "And that girl…"

At that, John straightened in a slightly defensive position. "Yes…that's my niece, Harley."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Huh. Well, she doesn't talk much, does she?"

"Um, not at all, actually. She…she's mute."

Dimmock blinked, surprised by this revelation, before shaking it off and looking pointedly at him again. "Oh…I suppose that explains why Sherlock keeps her around, then."

John frowned at this statement, but he soon found himself wondering the same thing. In the past few days Harley's been staying with them, she and Sherlock seemed to, surprisingly, get along quite well. At least, Sherlock didn't scare her off with his deductions or antics. But now, it seemed the detective was, dare John say it, enjoying her company— even making sure she came along on the case. He had noticed Sherlock grab her and drag her out of the backway when they were spotted by the police officers. He supposed he should be grateful that they were getting on well, but he couldn't help but worry about what kind of influence Sherlock was giving off to Harley. He didn't want her to get into any kind of trouble. He could hardly imagine explaining himself to Harry about the things her daughter was getting into (though, he doubted she'd give that much of a damn. He really needed to chat with her about not contacting Harley lately).

Dimmock held out a small, black book with a rubber holder around it. "This is what you wanted, isn't it? The journalist's diary?" he asked.

John took the diary and opened it up, flicking through the pages until he landed on a page. It was a calendar page bookmarked with a boarding pass from Zhuang Airlines, showing that Lukis had taken a flight from Dalian to London.

John closed the book, said goodbye to Dimmock, and left the station, heading to the place Lukis had written down where he had been before he died: the West End. Hopefully, this clue would be enough to bring them one step closer to solving this case.

* * *

"What kind of a boss was he, Amanda? Appreciative?" Sherlock asked Van Coon's PA as he and Harley watched her spread out the receipts on the desk.

Amanda backed away, allowing him to have a look at it. She gently wrung her hands at his question. "Um, no, that's not a word I'd use," she said as Sherlock knelt down on the floor to get a better look at the receipts. "The only things Eddie appreciated had a big price tag."

Sherlock glanced up once at the desk, taking off his gloves. "Like that hand cream. He bought that for you, didn't he?" he asked, nodding at the cream-colored pump bottle of luxury hand lotion before starting to rifle through the receipts.

Amanda fiddled nervously with a pin that stood out in her blond hair, catching Harley's eye. She couldn't help but admire it. It looked like an antique, with the end of it carved into a pale green serpent.

 _Heh. Slytherin pride._

Harley wrote something down on her paper, then showed it to Amanda: _I love your hairpin. It's pretty._

Amanda smiled at her, a faint blush coating her cheeks. "Thank you, sweetie."

Harley nodded back as if to say, _you're welcome_.

Then Sherlock picked up a receipt from a licensed taxi that showed that Van Coon had taken a cab on the day he was killed and timed at 10:35 am. He handed it over to Amanda. "Look at this one. Got a taxi from home the day he died. Eighteen pounds fifty."

Amanda frowned down at the paper. "That would get him to the office."

Sherlock shook his head. "Not rush hour. Check the time, midmorning. Eighteen would get him as far as…" he trailed off just as Amanda remembered something.

"The – the West End! I remember him saying."

Harley walked around Sherlock until she was on his other side, leaning over the desk to get a better look at the receipts. She narrowed her eyes.

Sherlock picked up another paper — a London Underground ticket with the same date on it. "Underground. Printed at one in Piccadilly," he said, handing the ticket over to Amanda.

"So he got a tube back to the office…?" Amanda said in confusion, trying to make out Van Coon's motives. "Why would he get a taxi into town and then the tube back?"

 _Good question,_ Harley thought, eyes raking over the receipts.

"Because he was delivering something heavy," Sherlock answered, still rummaging through the papers. "Didn't want to lug a package up the escalator."

"Delivering?" Amanda asked.

"To somewhere near Piccadilly Station. Dropped the package, delivered it, and then…"

Harley spotted the receipt closest to her; for a restaurant called Piazza Espresso Bar Italiano — with the same date on it as well, at a later time of the day. She picked it up and offered it to Sherlock. He looked at it once, then took it from her.

"…he stopped on his way. He got peckish," he finished in a whisper. He shot up, thanked Amanda, and told Harley to come along as he led her out of Van Coon's office. However, halfway across the trading floor, he suddenly stopped, almost making Harley run into him from behind.

"Stay here," he told her as he took off in another direction.

Harley watched him go in confusion. _What's he doing?_ But then she saw where he was headed: Sebastian's office.

Harley's mouth dropped open as he peeked in, making sure Sebastian wasn't there, then he snuck inside, pulling the note she wrote the day before out of his coat pocket.

 _Oh, my God. He's actually doing it._

Seconds later, Sherlock emerged from Wilke's office with an air of triumph. Harley couldn't believe it, he actually did it. She thought he was just joking. She looked away and covered her mouth, trying to hide her growing smile, but was failing. Sherlock approached her with a poker face, but a smirk broke out when he saw her shoulders shaking in silent laughter. "What? I told you I'd do it," he said matter-of-factly.

Calming herself down a moment later, she wrote for him: _You are way more twisted than I thought._

That got a low chuckle of amusement out of him. "My dear, you don't know the half of it."

She raised an eyebrow, but kept her smile. Sherlock placed a hand on her back, gently pushing her alongside him as they walked through the bank and then left the building for good, now intent on retracing Van Coon's steps.

As they drove to the West End, Harley wondered just how much money Sherlock made as a consulting detective…because she has seriously lost count of how many times they had taken a cab anywhere. All these fares were going to add up eventually.

They soon arrived at the West End, taking off on foot from there on until they ended up at the espresso bar that Van Coon had been to.

Now to find out where exactly he stopped by beforehand to deliver that mysterious package.

"So, you brought your lunch from here en route to the station, but where were you headed from?" Sherlock was speaking to himself as they walked around, looking for any clue on where Van Coon has been.

"Where did the taxi drop you— _Oof!"_

Harley whirled around to face him, and saw that he had bumped into her uncle, who had been engrossed in a black pocket book.

"Right," John said, looking surprised to have literally run into them.

 _John!_ Harley thought happily. It seemed he had finally cooled down from earlier, so she ran up to him and hugged him, who hugged her back with one arm.

"Eddie Van Coon brought a package here the day he died, whatever was hidden inside that case," Sherlock told John at a hundred miles an hour, "I've managed to piece together a picture using scraps of information—"

"Sherlock…" John tried to say but no avail.

"Credit cards, bills, receipts; he flew back from China, then he came here."

"Sherlock," John tried again, but did the detective listen? Harley could give you two guesses: No, and nope!

"Somewhere in this street. Somewhere near; I don't know where, but—"

"That shop, over there." John promptly pointed at a particular shop on the other side of the street.

Sherlock looked at the shop, then back at John with a frown. "How could you tell?" he asked, sounding a bit put off.

"Lukis' diary. He was here too," John told him, opening up the book and showing them the page. "He wrote down the address."

He started to walk off toward the shop.

 _Well….that's convenient,_ Harley thought, walking into step with her uncle and taking his hand. She heard Sherlock mumble an, "Oh," before he too caught up with them. So he was right earlier: somewhere the information, the records left behind of the two men, would somehow coincide together to make them one step closer. That made things a lot easier. Now they were on the right track again.

And apparently, the right track was leading them straight into the China Town of the West End.

They approached the shop from Lukis' diary, which looked like a quaint tourist trap. Harley looked up at the red banner with yellow font. _The Lucky Cat._ They walked into the shop, and were instantly bombarded with Chinese décor— tapestry on the walls and lanterns hanging from the ceiling, with fans, teapots with small cups, clay statues, and an unordinary amount of small, golden cats on their hind legs, their left paw moving back and forth rhythmically. A small machine in the middle of the shop produced steam, making the place seem more mystical and other-worldly, if that was what they were going for.

"Hello," John politely greeted the elderly shop keeper as they started to look around. Sherlock went over to the clay statues by the window, John looked at the teapots, and Harley immediately took interest in the vintage commonplace journals with various Chinese symbols they had stacked a little towards the back.

"You want lucky cat?" the shop keeper asked them, lifting up one of the cat statues for them to see.

Sherlock and Harley looked round at her. Harley lightly shook her head no before turning back, while Sherlock simply put on a false smile.

"No, no thanks," John replied.

"Ten pound, ten pound!" the woman insisted.

"Um, no," John repeated softly.

"I think your wife, she will like!"

"No, no thank you."

"Your daughter, perhaps?" The shop keeper gestured over to Harley suggestively. Harley was too busy flicking through the colors of each notebook cover to pay attention, though.

"She's my niece, but no, thank you," John corrected with an awkward smile before moving along to the small, painted, handle-less tea cups. Meanwhile, Harley walked up to the counter, intent on buying two of the journals, one blue and one black. She had already lost one of her notebooks today. So she might as well restock while she was somewhere she could get it. And bonus, each journal was only two pounds fifty each here! _Ha-cha-cha!_

"Ooh, good choice. You have good eye," the shop keeper complimented as she placed the items in a bag for her. Harley smiled slightly at her and nodded in thanks.

From just behind her, John had picked up a random tea cup, turning it over and looking underneath it for the price tag. As soon as he did so, his expression turned into one of concern.

"Sherlock," he called, getting the attention of not just Sherlock, but Harley as well.

Sherlock put down the statue he had been observing and walked over to him, and Harley did the same after making her purchase.

"The label there," John said.

Harley looked over his shoulder and saw that the label handwritten on a tag beneath the cup was an almost eight with a slash over the top — like the one they had found at the bank and at the library.

"Yes, I see it," Sherlock muttered when he had a look.

"Exactly the same as the cipher," John said before clearing his throat and placing the cup back down.

Sherlock raised his head, his gaze distant as he took in what they had uncovered, while Harley stared at the cups with a frown. The code they were looking for this whole time…was a Chinese price tag?

 _Okay…this is starting to get a little more interesting._

* * *

 **A/N- Harley: ... _The stubborn idjit._**

 **Me: "Girl, you just went full Bobby Singer! Never go full Bobby Singer!"**

 **...Sorry, couldn't resist. *goes to my corner***

 **Oh! And I forgot to mention! I'm a little late, but congrats to Benedict Cumberbatch and Sophie Hunter on the birth of their son! I'm so happy for them! I know they're both gonna be great parents! :D :D :D :D**


	10. Ancient Codes and Ciphers

**A/N- YOOOOOO wassup, home-slice-corn-dogs! How you doin'?**

 **I think we've finally reached the halfway mark on the Blind Banker episode. I know we seem to be inching our way through it, but keep in mind, these episodes are like, super long. Like feature-length movies; not counting that I'm adding my own twists to it with Harley.**

 **This story also now has enough words to be considered a novel. WHOOP!**

 **Disclaimer: I only own my OC.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

"It's an ancient number system — Hangzhou! These days, only street traders use it," Sherlock explained to the Watsons after leaving _The Lucky Cat_ shop, walking farther into China Town and towards the street market.

Harley tilted her head curiously at this new information. Wasn't Hangzhou a city in China? She recalled coming across that word in one of her school history books once. If she remembered correctly, it was the capital of the Zhejiang Province, just along the coast of Eastern China. She didn't recall reading about them having their own dialect; Mandarin maybe. Perhaps they had similar aspects?

"Those were numbers written on the wall at the bank and at the library. Numbers written in an ancient Chinese dialect," Sherlock continued as he approached one of the outside markets, which had various fruits and vegetables on display. He started rummaging through the handwritten signs placed around the goods, written in both English and Chinese.

"It's a fifteen," John said with realization, his eyes widening. "What we thought was the artist's tag— it's a number fifteen!"

Sherlock turned back to face them. "And the blind fold— the horizontal line? That was a number as well." He showed them a price tag that had the same line from the graffiti on top and _£1_ written beneath it. "The Chinese number one," he said as he grinned triumphantly.

"We've found it!" John said with a smile.

That was when it finally hit Harley on why the symbols looked familiar to her somehow. She had checked out a book from the library once about the history of mathematics (mostly because she was bored that day). It told about how math had changed throughout the ages and how various different cultures used it; a prime example being the Mayans used a vigesimal number system to calculate the calendar. So, somewhere along the way, she must've stumbled upon the symbols in the ancient Chinse number system— dated as far back as two-thousand BC. The horizontal line was the first number, and the almost eight was fifteen.

 _Nice,_ Harley thought with a small smile of her own. It was all coming together now.

Sherlock turned around and started walking down the street again. Harley made to follow, but stopped when she realized that her uncle had stayed put. She turned back to see him staring ahead at something she couldn't see, his smile faded.

 _Uncle John?_ she thought with concern.

She walked up to him, writing out a note and then showing it to him when he finally looked down at her:

 _Are you okay?_

He put his smile back on. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just thought I saw something," he assured her.

Harley raised an eyebrow. Saw something? Like what? Her eyes darted around them, trying to find anything suspicious that might've gotten John's attention, but found nothing— just a lot of people passing by or selling things.

 _Okay, then…?_ she thought, but nonetheless let it go, assuming John was probably just a little stressed out from the case or something. They started walking off again, hand-in-hand, catching back up with the consulting detective.

They had finally discovered what the symbols were. Now they needed to find out what they meant to Van Coon and Lukis, and what business they had at that shop.

The ended up back to where _The Lucky Cat_ was, only instead of reentering the shop, they went into a café just across the street, taking residence of the window seat up front — with a clear view of the shop across the way. John ordered something to eat when the waiter approached them, while Sherlock stared intently out the window at the shop opposite. He asked her if she wanted anything, but she shook her head; she wasn't hungry at the moment. This mystery had been keeping her on her toes lately; she's hardly had the time to think about food anyway. However, she did point down at the green tea label on the menu.

"That's it?" John asked her, and she gave an affirmative nod.

"Fine, but you have to eat something when we get back to the flat," John said, subtly bringing up his stern uncle voice.

She shrugged. _Fair enough._

Sherlock took a napkin from its holder and reached into the inside of his coat, searching for something but coming up short. It took a moment for Harley to realize that he was looking for a pen to write with. Without hesitation, she took her own pen and notebook, opened it up to a fresh page, and slid it over in front of him. She figured it was better than using a napkin for starters — so long as he gave it back, of course.

Sherlock looked at the offered journal, then up at her wordlessly, but she had already turned away from him; the waitress had arrived with her steaming cup of green tea. She picked it up and blew on it softly before taking a sip, staring straight ahead out the window inquisitively. It wasn't until a minute later did she finally move her gaze from the window to what Sherlock was jotting down— the two Hangzhou numbers with their English translations underneath.

"So, two men travel back from China. Both head for the _Lucky Cat_ emporium…" John said, writing down some notes of his own. "What did they see?"

"It's not what they saw; it's what they both brought back in those suitcases," Sherlock replied as he ripped out the page he wrote, folded it up and put it in his pocket, then gave Harley back her notebook and pen. That theory made more sense to Harley now. Back at Van Coon's flat, when she and Sherlock had looked into his suitcase; he said that there was something tightly packed inside of it. It must've been the package he delivered.

"And you don't mean duty free," John said jokingly, making Harley smile slightly under her tea cup. The waitress came back with John's food and placed it down in front of him. John thanked her before she walked away, leaving them alone for good.

Once she was out of earshot, Sherlock leaned forward. "Think about what Sebastian told us — about Van Coon, about how he stayed afloat in the market," he said.

"Lost five million—"

"Made it back in a week. That's how he made such easy money."

Harley frowned. That, she did not know until now. That must've been what they were talking about in the restaurant. She had already figured out that Van Coon had the Hong Kong accounts from when she visited his office that day and when she saw on his calendar that he flew to Dalian. But to make that much money in so little time after losing it…

"He was a smuggler," John said with realization before taking a bite of his food.

Her frown deepened. _What?_

"A guy like him, it would've been perfect," Sherlock muttered, staring out the window. "A businessman, making frequent trips to Asia. Lukis was the same, a journalist writing about China. Both of them smuggled stuff out, and _The Lucky Cat_ was their drop-off."

 _Ah, of course,_ Harley thought. That made more sense.

John looked back at Sherlock. "But why did they die? It doesn't make sense. If they both turned up at the shop and delivered the goods, why would someone threaten _and_ kill them after the event — after they had finished the job?"

There was a moment of silence between the three of them. Harley looked down at her half-drunken tea, lightly swirling it around in the cup as she thought about John's question. She may not have been an expert on the smuggling business, but she understood enough of it that if you didn't do as you were ordered — stepped even a _toe_ out of line — there were some serious consequences, depending on who the bosses were. So she wondered…what if something that they were supposed to deliver wasn't there? Or better yet…what if they took it without asking?

"Harley," Sherlock's voice brought her back, and she looked up at him. "What do you think?"

 _Seriously, how does he do that?!_

After contemplating for a moment, she put her cup down, wrote down one word that Sherlock would get, and showed it to him:

 _Thief._

And just as she thought, he got it. His lips quirked upward as he nodded in confirmation.

"What?" John asked, looking between them in confusion.

Sherlock looked from Harley to John. "One of them could've been light-fingered," he said.

"How do you mean?"

"Stole something — something from the hoard."

John's mouth opened slightly as he understood. "And the killer doesn't know which of them took it, so he threatens them both. Right."

 _What, and he just up and kills them, just like that?_ Harley wondered as she stared out at the shop. _Talk about shoot first and ask questions later. Moron._

"Remind me…" Sherlock said, his gaze suddenly locked on something across the street, "…when was the last time that it rained?"

Then, without waiting for a reply, he stood up from his seat and took off out of the café, Harley just on his heels. John rolled his eyes and sighed before getting up and following as well, leaving his half-eaten meal behind. They crossed the street until they approached the flat next door to _The Lucky Cat._ Propped up against the door was a Yellow Pages phone directory that was sealed in plastic wrap; the wrap still had drops of water from rain and the top of it had been broken open. Sherlock bent down to have better look at it, running his thumb over the top of the wet pages of the book.

"It's been here since Monday," he murmured. He straightened up and pressed on the doorbell. On the nameplate above it was a handwritten sign that bore the name, _Soo Lin Yao_. When no one answered a few seconds later, Sherlock looked to his right and headed off in that direction. He led them into an alleyway right next to the flat. "No one's been in that flat for at least three days," he said, looking up at the flat.

"Could've gone on holiday," John argued.

"Do you leave your windows open when you go on holiday?" Sherlock countered, turning to face the flat and backing up a little. Then he took a running start and jumped, grabbing onto the fire escape ladder above them. The hinges groaned as he lowered the ladder until it hit the ground. He quickly ran up it, the ladder lifting back up to its usual position as he climbed toward the open window.

"Sherlock!" John shouted up at him, but the detective had already started to go in. John looked like he wanted to follow, but he was too short to reach the ladder. And if he couldn't reach it, there was no way in heck Harley would be able to get it.

Knowing that following him in was no longer an option, Harley and John opted to run back to the front door and wait for Sherlock to let them in.

John rang the doorbell before shouting, "Do you think maybe you could let me in this time?"

When no answer came, John bent down and opened the letter box. "Can you not keep doing this please?" he yelled. Still no answer. He straightened in exasperation.

Harley knelt down and turned her head, her ear facing the open letter box.

"I'm not the first," Sherlock's voice floated from somewhere in the flat.

Harley frowned. What did he mean by that?

John bent down once again. "What?"

"Somebody's been in here before me!" Sherlock called back.

"What are you saying?" John asked. Since Harley was taking up most of the space on the front door in front of him, it was harder for him to hear.

She heard Sherlock's voice again, except it was softer than last time. Harley strained her ears and pressed as far as she could against the open letter box, trying to listen. "Size eight feet. Small, but….athletic."

John walked away, pacing a bit. "I'm wasting my breath," he grumbled before coming back to ring the doorbell again.

Harley shot him a look, then proceeded to listen. But Sherlock was no longer speaking — not loud enough for her to understand, that is. For a minute, she couldn't hear anything as she waited with anticipation.

Then she heard it. A strained cry, then a choking, struggling noise.

John bent down once more and shouted right next to her. " _Any_ time you want to include me!"

John straightened back up, so he wasn't able to catch the sound of Sherlock's voice cry out with difficulty, "John… _John!"_

Harley's eyes widened in alarm. She didn't know what was going on in there, but one thing was for certain: Sherlock was in trouble.

"Oh, I'm Sherlock Holmes, and I always work alone because no one can compete with my _massive intellect_!" John yelled before going back to pacing on the front step.

 _Am I the only one hearing this?!_ Harley thought incredulously. She shot to her feet and rang the doorbell, keeping her finger pressed against it as she used her other hand to knock on the door; she had to know what was happening. She hastily thought back to what Sherlock had said earlier; that someone else had entered the flat before he did. Whoever it was was small and athletic. It had to have been the same person who broke into Van Coon's and Lukis' flat.

The only difference was, the first two times, he left no trace that he had been there. All the windows and doors were locked tight when he left. But this time, the window had been left wide open. So that could only mean…

Harley's stomach dropped faster than a falling elevator. _Oh, CRAP!_

Forgetting about the doorbell, she tried to wrench open the door, but of course, it was locked. When that didn't work, she started pounding madly against the door with both fists. She had no idea what good this was accomplishing, but maybe — just maybe — the loud noise would scare the attacker away. It was all she _could_ do. Of all the times she wasn't able to scream…

 _Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh God!_ Her mind was practically going into overdrive. If she had a hairclip, she could probably pick the lock to get in. _But noooo!_ _My hair had to be short, like every other thing about me!_

She soon stopped banging on the door, panting for air. She couldn't hear anything anymore from the other side of the door.

… _Sherlock?_

She slid down and pressed her ear against the letter box again, waiting for something, _anything_ , that could tell her that Sherlock was alright.

A moment later, she heard a loud cough, followed by heavy, wheezy breathing. Was that Sherlock? It had to be…right?

She straightened once more and, very cautiously, she started knocking in a prompt rhythm against the door, spelling out Sherlock's name in Morse code. Then she waited anxiously.

Suddenly, the door flew open. She stepped back with a startled gasp, both hands over her mouth, while John turned to face him with a glare. Sherlock stood in the doorway, looking a little worse for wear. His hair was disheveled a bit— at least, more disheveled than it usually was. His scarf also hung loose, which allowed Harley to clearly see the bruises beginning to swell around his neck.

She swallowed thickly as she stared at him with comprehending dismay. _Someone had tried to strangle him to death._

"The, uh, milk's gone off and the washing's starting to smell. Somebody left here in a hurry three days ago," Sherlock said, his voice raspy and almost giving away at that last sentence.

"Somebody?" John asked him, while Harley just kept staring at him worriedly.

Sherlock nodded, taking a huge breath. "Soo Lin Yao — we have to find her."

"But how, exactly?"

Sherlock looked down, spotting something, and picked it up. It was a used, folded envelope. Harley squinted at it. There was a note written on it:

" _Soo Lin, please ring me. Tell me you're okay. –Andy"_

Sherlock unfolded the envelope and looked at the front of it. Printed on the bottom right corner in black letters was _National Antiques Museum_.

"We could start with this," he said, his voice still hoarse as he walked out, and they started down the street. Harley swung her backpack around and started digging through it.

"You- you've gone all croaky. Are you getting a cold?" John asked.

"I'm fine," he barely managed through his coughing.

 _Yeah, right._

She finally found what she was looking for: an unopened bottle of water. She pulled it out and ran up beside Sherlock, offering it to him.

He shook his head insistently. "I'm fine," he repeated, his voice still just as croaky as before.

She suddenly changed her look of concern into a hard glare towards him. She was _not_ in the mood for the macho act. He had nearly given her a heart attack earlier, and she was still making herself sick just thinking about it.

 _OI! I'm trying to be nice here! Just take the damn water already!_ she thought as she shoved the bottle into his hands. Then, without waiting for his reply, she quickened her pace and walked slightly ahead of him with a silent huff, her hands stuffed into her pockets.

Sherlock watched her go with a frown. He opened his mouth to protest, but another rough round of coughing came out instead. Begrudgingly, he unscrewed the bottle cap and took a gulp of the water, the need for something to clear his throat becoming too much for even him to handle anymore.

 _Yeah…that's what I thought,_ she mused when she dared a glimpse back, but otherwise made no indication that she had noticed, looking straight ahead again.

They soon hailed a taxi and left the West End, much to Harley's relief. Hopefully, they won't have to go back there, on the off chance something like that were to happen a second time. In the cab, she often snuck glances over at Sherlock. He had downed the whole bottle in just a few minutes. He readjusted his scarf so that it covered his bruised neck, and his voice had returned to normal— though it was still a bit croaky around the edges. She was just glad that he was okay now. That was the first time in a long time that she had ever gotten so worked up about something — about some _one_.

She let out a tired, heavy breath. What was this guy doing to her?

About forty-five minutes later, they pulled up in front of the National Antiques Museum, which was a large, impressive building with thick pillars in the front. Once they entered the museum, Sherlock talked with one of the security guards, requesting to talk to whoever this Andy was. It took a little convincing, but in the end they waited for Andy in the main showing room, which had various items on display, like masks, statues and clay bowls and teapots.

They were soon met by a young man with curly brown hair and wearing a red cardigan over a blue shirt and tie, his nametag saying Andy. Sherlock and John explained to Andy that they wanted to ask him questions about Soo Lin Yao. At the mention of her name, Andy's face paled slightly. He knew who she was.

"When was the last time that you saw her?" Sherlock questioned him as he walked around the displays.

"Three days ago. Um, here at the museum," Andy answered nervously.

Harley wandered around the displays while they talked, looking over some of the artifacts and recalling from which culture she had read about the masks and statues. She eyed the teapots briefly as she walked past — one of them was shiny while the rest were dusty and dull. She turned back to the men just as Andy finished explaining with a hint of sadness in his tone, "This morning, they'd told me she resigned, just like that. Just left her work unfinished."

Sherlock whirled back around and walked up to him. "What was the last thing that she did on her final afternoon?"

Andy hesitated at first, but then he started to lead them out of the main room and down a long flight of stairs to the basement archives. He flicked a switch, and the lights flickered on one by one, revealing a long corridor-like room with vaults and statues covered with cloth at the very end.

"She does this demonstration for the tourists— a- a tea ceremony. So she would have packed up her things and just put them in here," Andy explained to them as he went over to a cracked open vault and started turning the handle, opening it up even more.

Harley walked up to him, but then she caught something out of the corner of her eye beyond them, just out of the shadows. She glanced over, and did a double take, her eyes widening. Sherlock frowned ahead, noticing it too. They both walked slowly up to it. On a stand was a life-sized sculpture of a nude woman…except there was yellow paint splashed into an almost eight and a horizontal above that on her chest, and another straight line across her eyes.

The cipher— the one that seemed to follow them wherever they went.

From behind Sherlock and Harley, John and Andy finally noticed the painted statue as well, and gaped at it.

That was why Soo Lin had up and left unexpectedly. Her life had been threatened, just like Van Coon and Lukis. Somehow, she was involved in all of this, and she was in danger.

 _That is, if she's not already dead._

* * *

 **A/N- When it comes to books, I like to think that Harley is a bit like Klaus Baudelaire from _A Series of Unfortunate Events,_ or Sticky Washington from _The Mysterious Benedict Society_ \- basically a walking encyclopedia of random facts and passages that she remembers from every book she's ever read. **

**Another food for thought: In the movie adaptation of _Unfortunate_ _Events,_ Klaus frequently imagined a library in his mind to look up information from books he's read to figure something out...almost like a mind palace. *wink wink nudge nudge***

 **As always, thank you to everyone who's reading and enjoying the ride so far! I really appreciate the love...AND FEED ON THE HATE! *insert evil laughter and lightning strike in the background***

 **P.S.- Someone probably should've told those wacky Mayans that stopping their calendar at 2012 would cause worldwide conspiracy and fear for the apocalypse.**

 **Yep, still making 2012 jokes in 2015. Deal with it.**


	11. The Knights of London (sort of)

**A/N- Sooooo...quite a bit has happened in the past week. On June 26, The United States Supreme Court had ruled same-sex marriage legal nationwide...which is awesome! I mean, it only took them, what? Twenty-five years to decide that marriage equality was a good thing?!**

 **Now, I am utterly indifferent to sexual orientation (hell, I'm indifferent to MARRIAGE sometimes), but I also firmly believe in the value of equal rights. In the words of Optimus Prime: _Freedom is the right of all sentient beings._**

 **So, yeah, congrats to you guys for finally being granted the right to legally marry the love of your life! I know we still have quite a way to go as a country (nothing like this happens without a crap-ton of backlash here), but for now, let's celebrate this victory of finally legalizing gay marriage nationwide, or as I like to simply call it: marriage.**

 **Anyway, enough of that. You're here for the story! ONWARDS!**

 **Disclaimer: I only own my OC. BBC Sherlock belongs to the Miraculous Moffat and the Glorious Gatiss.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

Darkness had begun to fall by the time they emerged from the museum. Harley squinted up at the sky, then checked the time on her phone. Oh, wow. It was getting late. Where did the day go? Then again, a lot of things have happened throughout the day. Going to Scotland Yard, outrunning the police, going to the China Town — _Sherlock almost dying._ It's been an even crazier day than the one before. Now, Harley was finally starting to feel the weariness and hunger creeping back up on her as they stepped farther out into the chilled air. She let out a tired sigh, the cold fogging up her breath.

"We have to get to Soo Lin Yao," Sherlock said with determination as they bounded down the stone steps.

"If she's still alive," John said skeptically.

 _Ungh, don't say that,_ Harley thought as she rubbed her temples with her middle and index fingers. They haven't found Soo Lin yet, so there was still a chance that she was alive. She was obviously clever because she didn't run back to her home like Van Coon or Lukis did when she found the threat. Problem was, she could be anywhere by now.

"Sherlock!" a voice called out.

The three of them turned to see the young man from the gallery, Raz, run up to them.

"Oh, look who it is," John said testily when Raz approached them. Of course, he was still moody because of what happened.

"Found something you'll like," Raz said. His eyes lingered on John for a moment with a smirk before he started jogging off, the three of them going after him, Harley moving a bit slower than usual.

Luckily, Raz had slowed down his stride to a walk as they started to cross the Hungerford Bridge, heading for the south side of the river.

"Tuesday morning, all you've got to do is turn up and say the bag was yours," John said to Raz.

"Forget about your court date," Sherlock cut in impatiently.

John let out an annoyed huff, but said nothing more on the matter. Harley took his hand and squeezed it lightly. John looked down at her, a small smile breaking out, knowing that was her way of comforting him. She returned the smile, then looked back the way they came — and her smile vanished completely. She caught sight of a woman with short, dark hair wearing big sunglasses, who was standing at the end of the bridge, seemingly watching them. Harley quickly looked away, then back a second later. But when she did, the woman had vanished. How strange.

 _Maybe I'm just tired,_ Harley convinced herself after taking once last glance, then turned back and continued on with her uncle. They eventually turned up at the South Bank Skate Park. Raz led them through the under-croft, where all of the walls and pillars had been colorfully spray-painted within an inch of their life. There were still quite a few people in the park — the majority of them were teenagers — either just hanging out or riding through the park and doing tricks.

"Dude, that was rad!" a girl exclaimed as a boy did an impressive jump on his bike.

Harley blinked hazily in the girl's direction. _Rad? People still say that? Are they bringing it back?_

"If you want to hide a tree, then a forest is the best place to do it. Wouldn't you say?" Sherlock said as they walked, looking at the graffiti art all around them. "People would just walk straight past, not knowing, unable to decipher the message."

 _Mostly because people don't take the time to stop and look, especially in a place like this,_ Harley thought, eyeing the group of teenagers smoking and drinking alcohol nearby warily. She usually tried to steer clear from places like this as much as she could.

Raz pointed to a particular area on one of the walls. "There. I spotted it earlier."

They walked up to the wall, and saw that underneath the many tags and artworks were splits of bright yellow paint lines. But they were unmistakably the remains of the Chinese numbers.

"They _have_ been here," Sherlock mumbled before turning to Raz, raising his voice again. "And that's the exact same paint?"

"Yeah," Raz verified with a nod.

Sherlock then turned back to the Watsons. "If we're going to decipher this code, we're going to need to look for more evidence," he declared.

Raz bid them farewell before he ran off, and the three of them walked away from the wall, leaving the skate park. Sherlock suggested that most likely there would be more symbols around the area, and that they should split up to cover more ground. They all agreed. Harley decided to go off with her uncle, while Sherlock went another way on his own.

The Watsons stayed close as they started walking through a dim underpass, keeping a lookout on the walls for anymore symbols, but only coming up with more graffiti and posters.

It wasn't until several minutes later did John finally break the silence between them. "So, what's up with you and Sherlock lately?" he asked.

Harley looked up at him uncomprehendingly. _Say what now?_

"I mean, what's up with Sherlock inviting you everywhere now? I'm almost surprised he didn't have you go with him when we split," he elaborated, an eyebrow raised. "Something happen while I was out or something?"

 _Uhhh…I don't know how to answer that,_ she thought as they walked in a dreary silence, John waiting for an answer. He had a point, though. It seemed like ever since that morning John went out to get the shopping — since she and Sherlock had that conversation at the flat — he's been letting her come along on these insane chases. But it wasn't like he was forcing her to. He simply asked her, and she agreed. Why, on both accounts? Harley was still trying to figure that out for herself.

Coming out of her state of thought, she shrugged in response and shook her head, showing that she honestly didn't know any more than he did.

"Well, you are a smart kid, and you actually understand what he says most of the time. That helps…" John said, "…and considering the way he can tend to act, it could be a lot worse."

 _I guess,_ she thought with a hint of doubt.

They carried on with their search, exiting the underpass and finding themselves at the railway lines, the sound of trains wailing in the distance. Harley's eyes were beginning to grow heavy, and she tried to hold back a yawn, but failed. John instantly noticed.

"Tired?" he asked her.

She nodded admittedly, rubbing her eyes in an attempt to get rid of the fatigue.

"Alright, come on," John said, squatting down in front of her. "On my back, before you collapse on me."

Harley just stared at him. _What are you, crazy?_ she thought, remembering John's slight limp and shoulder injury. She didn't want to hurt him.

John smirked at her over his shoulder. "I think you're forgetting who you're looking at. I've hauled men more than twice your size over my shoulders across Afghanistan. You'll be fine. Now, hop on…for old time's sake."

Harley couldn't help but smile a bit at that. He was referring to when he would babysit her back when she was just a little kid, maybe four or five. He would often give her piggyback rides, pretending to be her noble steed, and she a knight, riding off into battle and slaying dragons together like the stories she'd read in books.

 _Those were the good old days._

In a delicate motion, she wrapped her arms around her uncle's neck, and he stood up, taking her with him as he hooked his arms around her legs to keep her in place.

"See? What'd I tell you? Light as a feather," John said smugly.

 _Yeah, yeah. You're a blond Superman,_ she thought, rolling her eyes fondly.

"Here," John said, taking a flashlight out of his jacket pocket and handing it to her. "I'll be the legs. You be the eyes."

She nodded in agreement. She turned on the light and aimed it outward, lighting the path ahead of them.

"Onwards!" John yelled.

 _Mysteries_ _ho!_ Harley thought with equal enthusiasm as they pressed forward into the night. Harley rested her chin on his shoulder, leaning against his head as they went, absently moving the light around them while they searched. John was holding up well, only slowing down once to readjust Harley farther up his back before continuing onwards.

It wasn't until they started walking along the train tracks did they finally spot something. Harley had the torchlight aimed toward the ground in front of them, and in the light they caught droplets of yellow paint on the sleepers and railings of the track. Harley felt John stiffen underneath her and tighten his grip on her as they kept going. They followed the growing drops until they stopped in front of a maintenance shed of some sort. Harley raised the light to the brick wall, and John stepped back in surprise as they stared, wide-eyed. The wall was covered across its entire fifteen-foot span with various Chinese symbols in the yellow hue.

 _Holy [insert swear word here],_ Harley thought, stunned.

John lowered her to her feet when she shifted, indicating that she wanted down. Both of them took out their phones. John dialed up Sherlock's number and put it to his ear while Harley started to take pictures of the symbols, shining the light on each one she took at a closer view before backing up to take one of all of them together in one photo.

John cursed under his breath a moment later as he lowered his phone. "Of course he wouldn't answer. He never answers his bloody phone," he sighed in exasperation.

Harley looked around, thinking fast. _Well, there's only one thing to do, then._ He couldn't have gone too far off from where they were. She whirled around and started running back the way they came from.

"Harley, wait!" John called out, going after her, but she didn't slow down, leaving a good gap between them as they sprinted across the railway. Harley darted back through the underpass and headed down the way she saw Sherlock go. A few minutes later, she finally tracked down the consulting detective, who was observing the side of a white, parked rail freight container. Sherlock turned at the sound of her running footsteps across the gravel, facing her, and he frowned.

"Harley?" he said as she slowed to a stop in front of him. "What's wrong?"

She rested her hands on her slightly bent knees and panted, taking a moment to catch her breath. Then she lifted her gaze back up to meet Sherlock's. She opened her mouth and took a deep breath.

"Answer your phone! I've been calling you!" John's voice shouted from behind her as he finally caught up with them. "We've found it." He jerked his thumb behind him in the direction they came from.

Sherlock looked from John to Harley. She closed her mouth and nodded lightly in confirmation. His eyes narrowed, but he said nothing as they both broke into a jog, following John back to the place they found the symbols. By the time they were on the other side of the railroad tracks, Harley was starting to feel a painful stitch in her side from running so much. She winced and clutched her side, but she had to keep going. She didn't want to fall behind.

Thankfully, the symbols weren't very far now. They stopped at the brick wall and shined the light. John's mouth dropped open in surprise again, and Harley felt like she had just gotten an electric shock, but this time it was for a different reason.

Because the wall was completely blank. The ciphers were gone.

"It's been painted over!" John exclaimed. He reached out and touched the wall, only to retract with freshly coated paint on his fingertips. He stumbled backwards. "I don't understand. It- it was here — ten minutes ago. We _saw_ it. A whole load of graffiti!"

Harley's eyes moved up and down the wall. Something about this just didn't feel right. How did someone manage to cover up the entire wall in the ten minutes they were gone? There _had_ to have been more than one person involved. No one was that fast with a brush.

It also brought up another disturbing question: Were they being watched?

"Somebody doesn't want me to see it," Sherlock muttered, staring out at the railroad tracks, as if looking for the person responsible.

Harley's eyes brightened as she remembered. _Oh, yeah! Don't worry, Sherlock, I've got this,_ Harley thought as she reached for her phone. _I'll just show you my pictures and— whaaat are you doing with my uncle?_

She had looked up only to find Sherlock suddenly standing in front of John, clasping his hands on both sides of his head.

"Hey! Sherlock, what are you doing—?" John asked but was cut off by Sherlock.

"Shh! John, concentrate. I need you to concentrate. Close your eyes."

John didn't close his eyes, instead looking more confused than ever. "No, what? Why? Why?!" he demanded as Sherlock lowered his hands to grip his upper arms instead. "What are you doing?!"

 _Yeah, what_ are _you doing?_ Harley questioned as she looked on from the side, an eyebrow raised.

Sherlock began to slowly spin John around in circles, staring at him intently. "I need you to maximize your visual memory. Try to picture what you saw. Can you picture it?"

"Yeah," John replied.

"Can you remember it?"

"Yes, definitely."

 _Um, guys? There's really no need for this…_ Harley thought, opening up the pictures on her phone and holding it up hesitantly, but they paid her no attention.

"Can you remember the pattern?"

"Yes!" John said exasperatedly.

 _Really, no need for this…_

"How much can you remember it?"

 _Seriously, guys. If you would just look at my phone…_

"Well, don't worry—"

"Because the average human memory on visual matters is only sixty-two percent accurate."

Harley dropped her arm to the side in a huff, blowing a wayward strand of hair out of her face. _That's it, I quit._

"Yeah, well, don't worry, I'll remember all of it," John insisted.

"Really?" Sherlock didn't look convinced.

"Yeah, well, at least I would…" John wrestled himself free from Sherlock's grasp, "…if you would let Harley give you her phone! She took photographs."

Harley looked up at the pair of them with a worn-out expression after an awkward silence. _Oh, are you ladies done with your dance recital now? Yes?_

She held her phone out to Sherlock, who slowly took it from her. It may have just been a trick of the limited light that they had, but Harley could've sworn that he looked embarrassed.

 _No need for that, buddy. I'm embarrassed_ for _you._

"Yes, well…good, then," Sherlock said, clearing his throat, as he skimmed through the pictures until he looked satisfied with what he saw. "I believe this will do for now. Let's start heading back."

 _Thank God,_ Harley thought with immense relief as they started heading back to civilization. She was now more exhausted than earlier from running, hungry, and she was starting to get a little cold. She rubbed her eyes, the momentary blindness almost making her stumble on her own two feet.

"Come on," John said as steadied her before lowering himself down. "Back up you go."

Harley didn't even waver this time as she got on his back and was lifted off the ground, content to be off her feet. She let out a soft sigh.

"What was it you called me back then? When we played knights?" John asked her as they walked on, looking up thoughtfully. "Sir Johnethus of the Round Table?"

She nodded against his shoulder, smiling tiredly. She almost couldn't believe that he would remember something like that from so long ago.

"Ah, yes. You were _really_ big on King Arthur back then."

 _It was a phase, and a good one at that. Get over it,_ she thought as she lightly smacked him upside the head, making him laugh.

"Easy there, Lady Harleen of Camelot."

 _It was only a model,_ Harley thought jokingly, rolling her eyes. Then she caught Sherlock watching them both with a quirked eyebrow and the barest hint of a smirk in amusement. _Oh, geez._ Feeling her cheeks warming up against the cold air, she buried her face in the crook of her uncle's neck as they continued onwards.

A long while later, they had reached the main road, hailed a cab — to which she spent the whole ride resting her head on her uncle's shoulder and relishing the heat of the car — and had finally arrived back at 221 Baker Street. Couldn't have made it back soon enough. The second they entered the living room, Harley unceremoniously tossed her jacket onto John's chair, along with her uncle's jacket, and shuffled over to the couch. Letting her weight take over, she fell forward and flopped face-first into the cushions.

"And down she goes," John teased, smiling at her sprawled form on the couch. Though, he himself was starting to get overcome with weariness of the day's events as well, not to mention getting up earlier than he usually did to go to his job interview that morning didn't exactly help.

 _Cradle and all,_ Harley thought drily, but otherwise didn't move a muscle at his comment.

Meanwhile, Sherlock went straight to the desk. He still had her phone, hooking it up to his computer. Harley lifted her head from the pillow at the sound of him printing off the pictures she had taken. Once that was done, Sherlock looked up at her and said simply, "I need your marker."

 _Fine, fine,_ her still hazy mind drawled as she took her black marker out of her bag and tossed it over to him. He responded in kind by tossing her back her phone, almost hitting her face if her reflexes hadn't kicked in, jolting her awake a bit. _Yeah, thanks._

John sat down at the desk and propped his head in his hands, his back facing Sherlock while the consulting detective scrawled the numbers on the pictures that represented the numerical value of each symbol.

By the time he had added the pictures to the collage above the fireplace, John was having trouble keeping his eyes open. On the couch, Harley watched the sleuth blearily, having to squint to focus. It still amazed her how he never seemed to get tired. If anything, he looked like he had just drank a pack of Red Bull, enjoying the thrill of the mystery. Sure, she wanted to solve the case too, but still…she didn't run on it. She needed to rest from time to time.

"Always in pairs. Look," Sherlock said after a while, breaking the silence and rousing both of them, finally seeming to have found a pattern in the code.

John opened his eyes, perking up a bit and turning to him. "Hmm?"

"Numbers, come with partners" Sherlock said. As he said this, John stretched his facial muscles, trying to stay awake.

"God, I need to sleep," he muttered, looking around the flat.

 _That's right, you do. Isn't tomorrow your first day at the surgery?_ Harley thought.

"Why did he paint it so near the tracks?" Sherlock asked, more to himself than either of the Watsons.

"No idea," John mumbled vaguely.

"Thousands of people pass by there every day."

"Just twenty minutes." John rested his head in his hand again.

"Of course," Sherlock breathed a moment later with realization, then raised his voice with excitement, "Of course! He wants information. He's trying to communicate with his people in the underworld. Whatever was stolen, he wants it back." He ran his finger over the picture of all of the symbols together in the center. "It's somewhere here, in a code…"

Suddenly, he ripped three of the photos from the wall. "We can't crack this without Soo Lin Yao," he proclaimed before heading for the door.

"Oh, good," John groaned sarcastically.

After Sherlock took the coat off its hanger, he turned and saw that Harley hadn't moved from the couch. He frowned. "Are you coming or not?"

She blinked at him, then took her notebook and wrote down her response and showed him:

 _Can I sit this one out this time, please? I'm pretty tired, and I'll probably just get in the way._

His eyebrows furrowed. He opened his mouth as if about to argue, but John cut him off, "Come on, Sherlock, leave her be. Besides, killer on the loose, remember? So if we're looking for Soo Lin, it's best she stayed here now anyway."

"There will always be killers on the loose out there, John. She's no safer any other time than now," Sherlock retorted impatiently.

 _Well,_ that's _reassuring,_ Harley thought.

"Sherlock…" John started in that warning tone that dared him to challenge him more.

Sherlock sighed. "Fine, then."

As Harley watched them leave, she couldn't help but feel a little bad. She really did want to help, but in her state now, when she wasn't as focused, she didn't think she'd be of any use. Besides, she really needed some time to sit and relax after a long day.

The silence that lingered about in the flat was suddenly broken by her stomach growling.

 _Right. I can relax after I get some dinner,_ she decided, getting up and going to kitchen. She searched through the cabinets and the fridge, but the only things she found that wasn't extracted from the human body was a half-empty jar of peanut butter and some dill pickles.

 _What the heck? Didn't we just go shopping a day ago? Don't tell me we ate everything already._

"Hoo-hoo!" a high-pitched voice called from the doorway, along with a soft knocking. Harley turned and saw Mrs. Hudson come in, carrying a platter filled with cheese, crackers, and pretzels.

"I saw the boys pop out earlier, so I just thought I'd make up some nibbles for you," Mrs. Hudson said sweetly, placing the platter down on the table.

Harley hoped that it only _felt_ like she drooling. She hurried to get her notebook from the other room, writing something down, then she went over to Mrs. Hudson:

 _Mrs. Hudson, you are a diamond in the rough._

The landlady waved a hand and giggled, but it came out more like a squeal of delight. "Oh, stop that."

Harley smiled a little with gratitude, then wrote: _Would you like to stay with me a bit? I don't think I'll be able to eat all of this myself._

"Oh, alright, dearie. But you better eat some of it." They sat down at the table together, digging into the snacks, while the landlady continued to speak in a rant-like manner, "You and Sherlock both, not eating when you're supposed to. 'The body is just transport,' he always tells me whenever I try to bring him food. He's quite the gangly scarecrow, don't you agree?"

 _Well, I wouldn't say scarecrow, but yeah, he is pretty much fueled only by cases,_ she mused, then nodded at Mrs. Hudson in silent agreement.

"So don't you dare start using that same excuse, young lady. You're still a growing girl, you know," Mrs. Hudson said, pointing at her.

 _Ma'am, yes, ma'am!_ Harley thought, nodding quickly at her mother hen-like tone.

Mrs. Hudson smiled in approval. "Good. If you ask me, I'm actually glad that you've been spending more time with the boys. It's getting you out of your shell, I can just tell."

Harley picked at a cracker and shrugged discretely, recalling her saying pretty much the same thing the night before.

"It's also good that you're getting to know Sherlock more, considering he and your uncle are together and all."

Harley nearly choked on her food. _Whoa, back up! What did she say?!_

"Not that I mind, of course. Far from it, actually. Mrs. Turner herself has married ones next door," Mrs. Hudson continued, not noticing the girl's initial shock of what she had said.

Harley's eye twitched. Mrs. Hudson thought that Sherlock and John were…?

No. _No._ She shook her head and wrote out: _I highly doubt that, Mrs. Hudson. I think they're just friends._

Mrs. Hudson shook her head back, not believing it one bit but saying offhandedly, "If that's what you think…"

Harley stared at her impassively. _Lady, I was raised by two lesbians; I practically had a gay-dar implanted in me the day I was born. So I'm pretty sure I'd know if either one of them had the hots for each other._

There was also the fact that John was a natural-born ladies' man, if his slip-up of how his interview went had any indication. Plus, she remembered some of the various girlfriends he'd had over the years. She'd lost count, in fact. So she was fairly certain that John was straighter than a _y-_ line on a graph.

And Sherlock? Well…she had little to no idea about him in that department. To her, he seemed to be the type of person who wasn't interested in things like that, or he simply didn't have the time for it. He wasn't exactly what you'd call the "cuddly, feely type", for sure. So she doubted that Sherlock harbored feelings like that toward her uncle — or anyone, for that matter. But she wasn't going to ask him; it was none of her business.

To her relief, Mrs. Hudson didn't say anything else on the matter, and they finished eating in silence.

 _Thank you for the snacks. They were delicious,_ Harley wrote to her after they had cleaned up.

"Think nothing of it, dearie. When I heard that you haven't eaten lunch today, I couldn't stand by. But this was just a one-time thing. I'm not your housekeeper, after all."

 _Yeah, you seem to have that sentence on a loop from time to time,_ Harley thought in amusement, not taking the warning that seriously but nodding in understanding anyway.

"I'll be downstairs if you need anything," Mrs. Hudson told her before giving her a quick hug and heading out the door, leaving Harley alone in the flat. With a satisfied sigh, Harley trudged up the stairs to her room. It was most likely going to be a while until the boys returned. So she figured she could use the time to catch up on her reading and rest up a bit. She settled onto her bed with the book she was reading, but she only got a few minutes in before she started to doze off.

It felt like she only drifted for a second before the sound of a door slamming downstairs jostled her awake. Her eyes snapped open as she sat up abruptly. After looking around to get her bearings, she reached for her phone and checked the time, rubbing her eyes awake more. It had been over three hours since she went to sleep. She got up and left her room, hearing the sound of the boys' footsteps coming up the stairs. She crept down the stairs and stopped three-quarters of the way down, watching Sherlock and her uncle enter the living room, both of them looking solemn.

"Not just a criminal organization," Sherlock said, taking off his coat and putting it on the hook. "It's a cult. Soo Lin's brother was corrupted by one of its leaders."

Harley's eyebrows shot up. _Soo Lin's brother? He was the killer?_ She sat down on the staircase, one hand holding onto the railing as she listened further.

"She said the name, didn't she?" John asked him as he sat in his chair.

"Yes. Shan— General Shan." Sherlock walked into her view in the doorway, hands in his pockets.

"We're still no closer to finding him."

"Wrong! We've got almost all we need to know," Sherlock corrected, turning to John. Then his voice lowered, sounding a little grave, "She gave us _most_ of the missing pieces."

Harley felt her heart grow heavy at the way he said that and its context. From what she could gather, it sounded like they had found Soo Lin and she had assisted them…but something happened. Did she die? Did the killer find her?

She suddenly became aware that Sherlock had caught sight of her on the stairwell. Their eyes locked for a long moment, and from the way he was looking at her, she could just tell that it didn't go over very well like she had thought. She bowed her head somberly.

Sherlock tore his gaze away from her and looked back to John. "Why did he need to visit his sister? Why did he need _her_ expertise?"

"She worked at the museum," John answered.

"Exactly."

"An expert in antiquities…" There was a pause as John finally put the pieces together. "Hmm, of course. I see."

" _Valuable_ antiquities, John. Ancient Chinese relics purchased on the black market. China's home to a thousand treasures hidden after Mao's revolution."

 _Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution, social-political movement, 1966 to 1976 by Mao Zedong,_ Harley's mind suddenly recalled from a Chinese cultural history book at the mention of Mao's revolution. She blinked, then shook the random thought out of her head.

"And the Black Lotus is selling them," John said in conclusion to Sherlock's statement.

 _Black Lotus?_ Harley silently questioned. But a few seconds later, she remembered the black paper flowers that they had found at the crime scenes. So it _was_ their calling card.

Meanwhile, Sherlock stared ahead with a clouded expression, tilting his head to the side. A long moment later, he snapped out of it and strode over to the desk and opened up his laptop. Harley used this time to stand up and enter the living room. John looked over at her.

"Oh, Harley...I'm surprised you're still awake," he said.

She merely gave him a single nod and proceeded across the room and stopped to where she was looking at what Sherlock was doing over his shoulder. "They're selling the relics on the black market," he said, typing away. "So what's the best way to do that and smuggle them in?"

In answer to his own question, he logged onto a website called Crispian's Auction.

 _By auctioning them off as antiques,_ she concluded. She smiled slightly. _Oh, that's clever._

John came over to look over Sherlock's shoulder from the other side as Sherlock began to scroll through the most recent Chinese auctions online.

"Check for the dates…" Sherlock murmured, then stopped at a bid on a pair of Chinese Ming vases. "Here! Arrived from China four days ago." He scanned the sale information. "Anonymous. The vendor doesn't give his name. Two undiscovered treasures from the East."

"One in Lukis' case and on in Van Coon's," John commented.

Sherlock went to Quest search and typed in _Chinese antiquities sold at auction,_ then hit search, and the list result came up instantly. "Look, here's another one," he said, pointing at the first bid on the list. "Arrived from China a month ago. Chinese ceramic statue sold, four hundred thousand."

John took Brian Lukis' diary from the desk and started to skim through it, then looked back up at the computer screen. "Ah, look, a month before that. A Chinese painting, half a million."

"All of them from an anonymous source. They're stealing them back in China, and one by one, they're feeding them into Britain."

"Ah." John consulted Lukis' diary once more and then the printout of Van Coon's calendar. "And every single auction coincides with Lukis or Van Coon travelling to China."

"So what if one of them got greedy while they were in China? What if one of them stole something?" Sherlock asked, looking from the computer to John.

"That's why Zhi Zhu's come," her uncle said.

Harley straightened and put a hand to her chin, thinking over what she had just learned. So, in a way, Van Coon and Lukis _were_ connected career-wise after all, and one of them ended up stealing something from the hoard, and they weren't answering the messages from the Black Lotus. So they sent someone to look for it, find out who took it — and that person's name, apparently, was Zhi Zhu. But if he was still out there, still in the country, then he obviously hadn't found what was stolen yet. What was it that he was looking for? And which one of the smugglers had stolen it?

"Hoo-hoo!"

She was pulled out of her reverie by Mrs. Hudson calling and knocking a second time that night. She, John and Sherlock turned toward the door in response.

"Sorry to interrupt, but are we collecting for charity, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

Harley raised an eyebrow. _Really? I didn't think he was the type._ She looked to Sherlock, but he appeared to be just as confused by the question as she was.

"What?" he asked.

"There's a young man outside with crates of books," Mrs. Hudson told him, pointing downstairs.

Harley's eyes brightened to the point that they were practically sparking, as if Mrs. Hudson had suddenly chanted the magic words. _Did she just say books?_ Crates _of them?!_

Harley felt her lips curl into a smile. Okay, _now_ she was liking the way this case was turning.

* * *

 **A/N- So far, the biggest debate I had with this story since starting it was whether or not I should have Harley join the boys to the museum the second time. But in the end, I decided against it...because having a twelve-year-old mute with mental issues watch a woman being gunned down would've been too much for her to handle for now. Besides, it gave me the perfect opportunity to have Harley spend some time with the lovely BAMF, Mrs. Hudson. She's a real gem...and she ships Johnlock harder than any other shipper in the galaxy. XD**

 **And Harley, honey, I believe the term you're looking for to describe Sherlock there is aromantic asexual.**

 **Only a few more chapters to go on the Blind Banker episode now! I honestly can't wait to wrap it up. I'm sort of planning to have a few chapters afterwards to where Harley spends a day with Sherlock while John's at work.**

 **Thank you for reading! Laterz!**


	12. Books, Books, More Books, and Coffee

**A/N- Hullo, my darlings! Guess what? You get the twelfth chapter early on this fine Fourth of July weekend! Because I've been in such an amazing mood and on a writing frenzy! And also because 'MURICA!**

 **Yeah, celebrating American patriotism...in a fic taking place in Britain. Sounds legitimate.**

 **And I'd also like to say, this story now currently has sixty followers, over twenty reviews, and over forty favorites. That is just so freaking insane. You guys are insane...insanely AWESOME! Seriously, thank you guys sooooo much for liking and giving me your feedback. That makes my small heart grow three sizes this day.**

 **Disclaimer: I only own my OC...who, when I think about it, can't speak up and vouch for me if I for some reason get caught. Oops.**

 **WARNING: This chapter contains lots and lots of reading, sleepiness, and perhaps an unordinary amount of fluffiness. Proceed with caution.**

 **Otherwise, enjoy!**

* * *

Harley sat cross-legged on the couch as she watched the uniformed police officers drop off several plastic crates into the living room, making multiple trips in and out of the flat in the process. By the time they had dumped the last one, there was a total of about twenty-five crates— maybe thirty— surrounding her and the rest of the sitting room. Half of them were marked Van Coon, the other half Lukis. There were enough crates for Harley to make _two_ forts, perhaps three if she was creative enough with the blueprinting.

Harley almost couldn't believe how many books these two men had, considering how their jobs— especially their smuggling jobs— kept them busy all of the time. She wagered more than half of their collections have never even been read or opened, only put on display for show. The poor saps.

"So, the numbers are references," Sherlock said once the officers had left the room.

"To books," John commented.

Sherlock turned to him. "To specific pages and specific words on those pages."

John nodded, still looking a bit unconvinced. "Right. So…fifteen and one, that means…?"

"Turn to page fifteen and it's the first word you read," Sherlock clarified.

"Okay, so what's the message?"

"Depends on the book. That's the cunning of the book _code_ ," Sherlock said snarkily. Then he turned back to the crates, eyeing the labels marking Van Coon and Lukis. "It has to be one that they both owned."

Harley untangled herself and shot up from the couch, walking over to the stacks of crates closest to her and looking at the labels as well. So, find a book that the victims both had, and check the first word of the fifteenth page. That didn't sound too hard.

"Okay, fine," John muttered, looking around at the many, many crates in the room with despair. He sighed. "Well, this…shouldn't take too long, should it?"

Harley sent him a look of mock sympathy. _Oh, hon._ Then she went back to her own stacks of crates in her own little corner of the room. From behind her, she could hear the two men already beginning to rummage their way through their crates noisily.

 _Hmm, dare I say it again? Yeah, I might as well…'Psh! Amateurs.'_

Mustering what upper body strength she had, she moved the crates off each other and reorganized them side by side— the left side Van Coon, and the right side Lukis. She flipped open each box and peered inside of them…and glowered in disgust. It looked like all of the books had just been thrown in there, with each variety of genres in one box each. General fiction, economics, politics, biography, etc. There was no order to it whatsoever.

 _What is this?! They didn't even bother to categorize them? What the heck is wrong with these people?!_

She let out a heavy breath, looking up at the ceiling and regathering her patience. Oh, well. She could still manage to differ the books and find two copies from both collections. It would've been much easier the other way, but this will have to do.

She cracked her knuckles and popped her neck on each side, glaring down at the crates of books. _Alright. You're in my domain now, books. You're gonna be checked with, and you're gonna take it._

Rolling up her sleeves, she approached the crates and almost literally plunged into them, taking out books by the handful and beginning to sort through them. She sat down on the floor, crossing her legs as she did so.

She was only about fifteen seconds into it until a new person walked into the living room, followed by a voice, "We found these at the museum."

Harley lifted her head up with a frown, wondering who would be brave enough interrupt her while she was getting into the zone. She saw Detective Inspector Dimmock standing in the middle of the little open space in the room and holding out an evidence bag, which had the photos of the symbols she had taken at the tracks, to Sherlock.

 _Oh, him again._ If Harley had the ability to groan, she'd do it.

Dimmock turned to her uncle, who had sat down at the table. "Is this your writing?" he asked him.

John awkwardly took the bag from him. "Uh, we hoped Soo Lin could decipher it for us. Thanks," he said.

Dimmock nodded, then turned back to Sherlock, who was still rummaging through his stack of books, barely acknowledging anyone. Harley was a little surprised to find that the Detective Inspector looked nervous— timid, even. She raised an eyebrow. _Oh, did he finally learn his lesson?_

"Is there anything else I can do?" he asked hesitantly. "To assist you, I mean?"

"Some silence right now would be marvelous," Sherlock said, not even looking up.

 _Yes, that would be just grand,_ Harley silently agreed, not watching the interaction anymore and going back to her stack of books. Thankfully, after a moment's pause, she heard Dimmock finally step out, leaving them alone.

John looked over at his niece. "Aren't you tired, Harley? You don't have to do that, you know," he said.

Harley stopped what she was doing and slowly turned her head to face him. She gave him the most vacant of looks for what seemed like minutes before turning back, and continuing what she was doing like she hadn't heard anything.

From behind her, she could hear John mumble to himself, "How can someone who doesn't talk be such a smart-aleck?"

 _Very carefully,_ she thought, just as she heard a snort coming from Sherlock's direction. She rolled her eyes and refocused on the books. Although, John was right in one aspect: even after a few hours of napping, she still felt weary. She had to blink multiple times to clear her vision to see the small print in front of her. She hardly ever stood up this late, even on holidays. But if going through these books to find the message would help speed things along, she was there.

She found her first two copies of the same book about five minutes into searching, a fairly popular one: _The Art of War_ by Sun Tzu. She flipped the book open to the fifteenth page, reading the first sentence:

" _A skilled general levies troops only once and transports provisions from home only twice."_

" _A". That's not very much help,_ she thought with disappointment before she remembered that this was only her first find. She closed the book and placed both copies to the side, starting up a reject pile. She jotted down the title and the word in her notebook before returning to her search.

Sometime later, she found another match. _Keeping Bees: Looking After an Apiary_ by Vivian Head.

 _Beekeeping? When the heck would Van Coon or Lukis have had the time and materials to do that?_ she asked herself as she opened the book to page fifteen.

" _Scientists."_

No, that didn't tell her anything either. On to the next pair of books.

 _IQ84_ by Haruki Murakami.

" _Right."_

Nope. Next.

 _Kill Alex Cross_ by James Patterson.

" _Suspect's."_

That kind of sounded like what they were looking for, but Harley doubted it. She put them aside and looked over at the many, many books she had yet to search through.

 _Get comfortable, Harley. Looks like you're going to pull an all-nighter,_ she told herself with a soft sigh before proceeding her search and reading off into the night.

The next several hours passed by slowly, the only sounds that were to be heard throughout the flat were the flipping of pages or the scuffling of moving books around. During that time, Harley pressed on, despite her ever growing drowsiness. Occasionally her eyes would drift close, only to quickly blink them open and keep reading. Sometimes, she'd find herself reading the same sentence over and over, which was one of her biggest pet peeves of reading into the wee hours. One of the reasons she did most of her reading during the day.

Often, she'd come across a book that piqued her interest, even though it didn't come in pairs. She'd skim through the first few pages, then set it aside and went back on track, mentally marking it down on whether it was intriguing enough to check out at a later time.

By the time the darkness of the sky outside was slowly creeping into the brightness of morning, she had gone through seven different crates and ninety-eight different books. All around her were books piled higher than her as she sat there and read on. She was also now almost unbearably sleepy. She struggled hard to keep her eyes open, her vision blurring and the printed words she was reading blending into each other to make an incomprehensible sentence. By this time, she could hardly think straight.

 _But I have to keep going. There are still a lot of books to go through,_ she persisted, though hazily.

Trying a new tactic, she shifted position from sitting upright (her backside had gotten incredibly stiff from staying like so for so long), and carefully maneuvered herself to where she was lying on her stomach and side, placing the book she was reading, _To the Ends of the Earth_ by William Golding, right under her nose. Now, she would be nice and comfortable while also still being able to—

 _THUMP._

Her heavy head fell forward, right onto the open page of the book, her eyes drooping shut as she finally sank into unconsciousness.

* * *

Sherlock and John looked up from the books they were reading at the sound of the gentle thump, and they found Harley fast asleep amongst what looked like a metropolis of stacked books surrounding her. One of the thicker volumes was currently being used as a pillow underneath her head.

"And she's finally surrendered to the temptation," John sighed, chuckling slightly. "There goes our help."

"I'm surprised she lasted this long," Sherlock muttered to himself, glancing at his watch once.

"Get used to it," John said, keeping his voice down so as not to rouse his niece. "Once she has her mind set on something, she'll keep going until she burns out."

Sherlock merely hummed quietly in response to that. He opened the next book in his pile, peering into it. A long moment later, after a quick glance at the girl, making sure she truly was asleep, he turned to John curiously.

"When exactly did Harley stop speaking?" he asked.

John started, obviously surprised by the out-of-nowhere question from the detective, until his expression turned grave after a moment. "Um, six. She was six."

Sherlock stared at him, waiting for a little more clarification than that. John sighed. "Look, I don't really know all of the details of the day she stopped. I was actually away on duty at the time. Harry knows more about it. She woke up one morning, and Harley just wouldn't answer to anyone at all, even though she could clearly hear fine. And I already told you about the rest."

"And she hasn't said a word since then?"

"No…at least, not that I know of."

Sherlock frowned at this. His eyes flickered from John down to Harley, before he turned his gaze back to his book as if he hadn't said anything since then.

"Why so curious all of the sudden?" John questioned.

Sherlock glanced up innocently. "Hmm?"

John wasn't buying it. "You know what. And furthermore, why do you keep letting Harley in on what we're doing?"

Sherlock shrugged. "To relieve her boredom. If not, all she'd do here was read and do her homework," He paused for a moment, then added, rather cautiously, "And she's…tolerable."

John looked at him skeptically. Then, when he realized that was the most he was going to get out of the elusive sleuth— and that that was probably the highest compliment Sherlock's ever given to anyone— he sighed in defeat. "Well, if it is to 'relieve her boredom,' as you say…it's working."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose. He wasn't expecting that kind of a response.

"This week has probably been the most…" John considered the right choice of wording to use before continuing, "….enthusiastic I've ever seen Harley in a long, long time. And she seems to like it— for some odd reason." Then, hardening his face, John sent him a look he had no doubt mastered over the years of being in military service. "Just promise me you won't let Harley get hurt in any way because of this."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, coming off as unperturbed. "Of course, John. Honestly," he drawled.

"Good."

Before anything else was said between the two flatmates, John's alarm on his wristwatch bleeped twice. Almost simultaneously, the church bells of a cathedral somewhere outside began to toll, indicating that it was eight o'clock. John clicked the alarm off. He looked outside at the morning light, then buried his face in his hands, not believing that he had spent the whole night sorting through books. "Damn," he uttered, "I have to be at the surgery in half an hour."

Sherlock groaned. "As I said: _dull_."

John rolled his eyes. "Not everyone can be consultants like you, Sherlock. You know that, right?"

"Why not? It'd be easier, more stimulating, and you can decide how much money you'd earn. Harley thought so when we met."

John ran a hand down his face tiredly, sighing in exasperation. "I don't have the time and energy to argue right now. I have to get ready."

With that, he stood and hurried out of the living room so as not to be late for his first day, leaving Sherlock alone— well, mostly alone. Minutes later, John reappeared in the doorway with a fresh shirt thrown on and his hair combed— though hastily.

"Okay, I'm off out," he said quickly, swinging his coat on. "Just— just make sure those books don't fall on Harley— maybe move them or something, alright?" Then he spun around and trotted down the stairs before Sherlock could even reply.

Sherlock frowned at John's retreating back until he was gone and out of the flat, then he moved his gaze back on the still deeply slumbering Harley. His frown faded away as he observed all of the piled-high books surrounding her, as well as the scattered pieces of scrawled notebook paper on the floor beside her, listing off several book titles and cliff notes. He couldn't help but smirk. She had gotten quite far along into the crates in her section— not more than him, of course, but still more than John. She really was persistent when it came to books.

He failed to understand why John was so worried the books would fall on her when he left. Perhaps the ex-army doctor was afraid Harley would knock them over in her sleep somehow. He looked her over as he quietly treaded closer. Her body was curled up on its side, her forearm covering the bottom half of her face as her chest rose and fell with every breath she took, but otherwise she hadn't moved an inch. It was like she was subconsciously trying to take up as little room as possible in her own personal space— like every other time, he realized. Since her first day, she hardly ever left any hints of being in a room that she was previously in, only subtle clues that only he could find. She was quite…provisional.

On the other hand, he didn't want John to come in later and find out that Sherlock had done nothing to fulfill his request. That would be bothersome.

Sherlock stood over her for a long moment, silently debating with himself on whether he should wake her, move her, or just leave her be. She looked comfortable enough on the floor, but even he knew that she'd end up stiff and sore from it later; plus, there was the off chance that if someone were to come in, they wouldn't see her and step on her. And he wasn't one-hundred-percent sure how she'd react if he shook her awake, but if what he had learned from previous interactions with her the past few days was correct, she'd most likely jolt or flinch in a slight panic— which would lead to him having to calm her down. So waking her was out of the question.

Besides, he'd been watching her occasionally out of the corner of his eye throughout the evening, and she really needed the rest. If she was going to help, then he was going to need her to be at her sharpest, most focused.

He sighed. That left only one option.

He knelt down, trying to calculate the best way to approach this without waking her up. He quietly moved a few of the stacks over, giving him more elbow room. Then, with somewhat hesitant movements, he gingerly gathered Harley into his arms and lifted her from the floor, keeping his eyes on her face which was now nestled against his shoulder. Not trusting himself to make it all the way up the stairs to her room without stirring her, he settled for the closest piece of furniture that allowed her to lie back comfortably: the sofa. After successfully steering his way through the labyrinth of crates without bumping either of them, he gradually laid Harley down onto the couch.

He froze momentarily when Harley's face scrunched up in a vacant frown, the corner of her mouth twitching, as if she was dreaming of being pricked with a pin. Then she curled up on her side in the same fetal position she was in just moments before on the floor, her hand moving back up and coiling into a fist to cover her face. Her slow and steady breathing was what told him that she was still unconscious, and he relaxed again.

 _Even in her sleep, she seems to constantly want to hide herself from the world,_ he thought as he straightened. With one last look and a collective sigh, he turned and silently returned to the other side of the room to keep searching through the crates for the message, leaving Harley to sleep in peace.

 _SEVEN HOURS LATER…_

Sherlock growled lowly and threw down another book that gave him next to nothing to work with. He had been at this for who knew how long anymore, and to his chagrin, this was not going along as well as he had hoped. Every once in a while, the idea crept into his mind to wake up Harley and have her help, make it go faster, but he would shove the thought aside and move on. Although, the enticement would get stronger and stronger the more he came up empty handed with every pair of books he read.

Fortunately for him, he didn't have to in the end.

There was a slight movement out of his peripheral vision, and he looked up to find Harley slowly pushing herself up, blinking herself awake. She lifted her head up and squinted out the window blearily, getting her bearings. Then she turned to look at him.

"Afternoon," he said in blunt greeting.

She blinked at him, then moved her gaze to the chair at the table John had been sitting at, getting the hint that her uncle had gone off to work. Then she let out a soft sigh before she brought a hand to her lower jaw and jerked it to the side a little, making it crack lightly.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at the motion, a new thought occurring to him. _She didn't have TMD, did she?_ He doubted it, as he had never seen her in any sort of pain or facial swelling when trying to use her jaw, and she wasn't nearly old enough to develop it yet. Though, she did have some trouble with controlling it from time to time. Perhaps it was stress— or perhaps injury…?

Harley pushed herself off the sofa, rubbing her left eye with her sleeve. She carefully made her way around the crates. As she did so, her eyes lingered on the space she had fallen asleep in, then moved past it and went into the kitchen, intent on making tea, and perhaps something to eat. Either she did not know why she had miraculously moved from that place to the couch in her sleep; or she did, but simply chose not to acknowledge it whatsoever.

She returned to the sitting room a few minutes later with two hot mugs. She walked up and held one out to him expectantly. Learning his lesson from the last time, Sherlock took it wordlessly, taking a drink of his tea. As she walked past him, he caught a scent he didn't expect to smell. He sniffed twice, then turned to Harley with furrowed brows. "Are you drinking _coffee_?"

She nodded, taking a big sip. Then, as if a thought had suddenly occurred to her, she took a scrap of paper and pen off the table and wrote a note for him:

 _Sorry. Did you want coffee instead?_

"No, it's just…I didn't think you drank it."

She merely shrugged her small shoulders, took another sip, and walked away. She made her way back to her own section of crates. After looking over the organized chaos she had produced, she placed her cup on a crate, knelt down, and started straightening up the scattered papers and books all over the floor. She shuffled through the sheets of paper when she was done, skimming them over, then lifted her head up to Sherlock with a solemn expression.

"Yes, you're right. This isn't exactly getting us anywhere," he said, almost instantly understanding her dilemma, as well as his.

Her gray eyes suddenly became clouded as she stared ahead distantly. He knew that look; she was getting an idea.

"What is it?" he enquired.

She blinked herself out of her thoughts. After another quick glance around the room, she took her notebook and wrote something down in a flourish. Then she walked over to him and showed him:

 _Maybe we're looking at this the wrong way. I think we need to try a different approach._

He was about to ask her what exactly she meant by that, but then he noticed her eyes had that far-away look in them again, focused on something else entirely, from right behind him. He turned around, but the only things there were his own books on the shelf above.

 _Wait…_

"Oh… _oh!_ " he exclaimed, suddenly inspired. He turned to face Harley with a grin. "Yes, we _were_ looking at it the wrong way. We shouldn't be looking for a book that only Van Coon and Lukis owned— we should be looking for a book that _everybody_ would own!"

Harley looked at him, surprised by his rather passionate outburst, then she smiled timidly.

He whirled back to the bookshelf, reached up, and pulled out three different books: the Concise Oxford English Dictionary, the Holy Bible, and a book on medical illnesses. He placed them on the stack of crates in front of him and immediately opened up the dictionary. As he did so, Harley took the medical book and looked through it as well.

"Fifteen, entry one," he mumbled as he flipped to the correct page, running his finger up the paper.

 _"Add."_

No, that wasn't it. He placed the book aside and looked over at Harley. She shook her head and showed him the word she found.

 _"Nostrils."_

This new lead was beginning to take a downturn. He picked up the last book he took off the shelf, the Bible, and flipped it open to the Book of Genesis.

 _"I."_

He set the book amongst the other rejected ones, ruffling his hair in frustration. Harley passed him a message, her face still tinged with some hope:

 _Maybe it's the wrong version of the Bible. There are a lot of different versions._

"This is the King James Bible," he said, rubbing his forehead. "It's the most common one found in the average household."

And just like that, the hope in her eyes vanished completely as she sank down onto one of the crates behind her. She looked like she was internally screaming. He sympathized with her entirely.

They sat in a dead silence in their own thoughts for so long, they hardly noticed John come in after his first day at work.

"Oh, Harley. You're awake," John said upon seeing her, smiling. Harley snapped her head up and looked at him. She got up and gave him a quick hug in greeting.

"I need to get some air. We're going out tonight," Sherlock suddenly declared dramatically.

"Actually, I've, uh, got a date," John told him, his smile turning rather smug.

From beside him, Harley frowned at this new announcement, staring at her uncle.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"It's where two people who like each other go out and have fun," John explained, as if speaking to a small child.

Now it was Sherlock's turn to frown. "That's what _I_ was suggesting," he said, his tone almost like a whine.

John looked toward ceiling. "No, it wasn't…" he said, then added as an afterthought, "…at least, I hope not."

Meanwhile, Harley had walked away from him, going over to one of the crates and picking up a book distractedly. Sherlock noticed that her expression appeared put off, for some reason. Then he shook off the deduction and turned back to John. "Where are you taking her?" he asked, trying to sound interested.

"Err, cinema," John replied.

"Oh, dull, boring, predictable." Then, getting an idea, he pulled a scrap of paper out of his pocket— a corner paper that he had ripped off of a poster the previous evening while they were out searching for the ciphers. He offered it over to John. "Why don't you try this?"

John took it and peered down at it. In yellow print were the words, _The Yellow Dragon Circus,_ and underneath that was the box office number.

"In London for one night only," Sherlock added persuasively.

John chuckled and handed the paper back to him. "Thanks, but I don't come to you for dating advice."

Sherlock had to bite back the triumphant grin that threatened to break out as he turned his back to his flatmate. Of course John would refuse at first, but he had seen the look in his eyes, like he was having second thoughts. Yes, he was most likely going to choose the circus. The seed had been planted.

He was good at convincing people to do things, if he could say so himself...which he could.

A few hours later into the evening, just as Sherlock predicted, John left for his date, heading to the circus. About two minutes after watching John get in the cab and drive off, he instantly put on his coat and scarf, intent on following. He was just about to go down the stairs, but he stopped short in the doorway. After a moment of standing still in deliberation, he changed direction and went up the stairs instead. He reached Harley's room, whose door was wide open. He looked in from the doorway. The girl in question was sitting on the bed with her back against the bedrest, her nose in one of his books. He raised an eyebrow. If he could gather anything by her body language and partially grim expression, he would deduce that she was _sulking._ Why, he did not know.

"Harley?" he said, finally making himself known. As he had come to expect, she flinched from the rip in the silence she had grown used to. Perhaps she did have an anxiety issue. She looked up at him, then set the book down and stood, giving him all of her attention.

Choosing his words carefully, he asked her, "How do you feel about going to the circus tonight? I presume your parents never took you to one before."

Her eyebrows shot up for only a second, but then she just looked at him in slight suspicion. She took her notebook and wrote:

 _The same one you got John to take his date to?_

"Yes. Oh, here," he pulled out the scrap paper and gave it to her. She studied it with a frown for a moment. Then, with growing realization, she quickly looked back up at him with wide eyes.

"You know why I suggested it, don't you?"

She nodded.

He smirked, feeling a small twinge of pride in him before he quickly recomposed himself. "So, what do you say to watching circus performers for entertainment while trying to take down a smuggling ring?"

To his surprise, a somewhat devious smile began to form on her face as she wrote out:

 _Sounds like fun. Besides, I want to see this mystery woman who thinks she can steal my uncle's heart._

He allowed a small smile of his own to form, quirking an eyebrow. Now he understood why she had acted like so when John told them about his evening plans. A bit territorial about how she shared her uncle's affections, was she?

"Get your coat, then. We haven't got time to waste," he told her, leaving the room so she could get ready. Thirty seconds later, she met him on the staircase, and together they ventured out into the cold night, bounding straight for the Chinese Yellow Dragon Circus.

And quite possibly bounding straight for danger.

* * *

 **A/N- As much fun as it was to write this chapter, I also found it quite...difficult. For some odd reason, writing about Sleepy Harley makes me feel a little sleepy as well. Does that ever happen to any of you fellow writers sometimes? That's some whacked up Jedi mind-meld schizo.**

 **And Harley is much braver than I'll probably ever be...I don't trust myself to drink coffee.**

 **Oh, I cannot WAIT to finish up the next chapter *rubs hands together gleefully* This is gonna be so much fun.**

 **Until then, happy Fourth of July weekend, my fellow Americans! CHEERS!**


	13. The Date Crashers

**A/N- What time is it? CHINESE CIRCUS TIME! (Sorry, Finn and Jake. You'll get your turn later)**

 **WOOHOO! I've been wanting to do this chapter for ages! Now we finally get to see Harley get into some of the action (and check out John's date while she's at it, too). And we're getting so close to the end of the Blind Banker now, guys! I'm so excited! :D**

 **But I'm also very excited because recently, there was a teaser trailer released for Netflix's TV adaptation of _A Series of Unfortunate Events,_ and I went freaking nuts when I first saw it. It looks soooo good! I can't wait!**

 **Disclaimer: I only own my OC.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

Harley had come to the vague conclusion that, in all honesty, she hardly needed two weeks to do the things people hardly dreamed of doing while on their break from school. In the past two days alone, she had gone to the Shad Sanderson Bank in downtown London, New Scotland Yard, the National Art Gallery, the West End, the National Antiques Museum, and now, she was going to a Chinese circus. This case was almost literally taking her _everywhere_.

And on top of all of that, she was affiliating herself with a not-so-ordinary consulting detective by helping crack a code, and taking down a black market organization that was killing off some of its workers.

 _Yeah, I might have to tweak a few details when I write that essay,_ she thought as they drove though the city in the back of a cab. She glanced over at the consulting detective, who had just finished calling up the box office at the circus and added two more tickets for him and her under reservation.

She couldn't help but smile slightly as she turned away and looked out the window. Not only were they going to the circus and tracking down the assassin; they were also going to crash John's date. She knew it wasn't particularly a polite thing to do, but she couldn't help it; she wanted to know who John was taking out as his date. She briefly remembered some of the women John used to date back in the day, and if her memory served, most of them turned out to be a bit…spotty. They were usually either boring, obnoxious, or Harley just didn't like them for some specific reason. So Harley had unofficially dubbed herself the critic of any lady-friend her uncle took interest in. After all, any one of them might end up being her aunt someday. It was a hard job, because John dated a _lot_ of women, and all of them so far had not fit the role at all. It didn't help that John was just too darn likeable and cutesy with a tough soldier chic on the side. Girls seemed to swarm to him like moths to fire. But if it meant John's happiness, she had to keep the ones she deemed unworthy of her uncle out of the way.

And it was not because Harley was jealous. Because she wasn't, at all. _Not…one…bit._

Before she knew it, they had finally arrived at the location the circus had been set up. She climbed out of the cab after Sherlock, looked up, and tilted her head with a slight frown.

Normally, when people hear the word "circus", they automatically picture giant striped tents with caravans, exotic animals and other various performers of many talents, taking place in an open area— a field, perhaps. The Yellow Dragon Circus had none of these things, nor was it in an open field. It appeared to be an old, abandoned theatre house trapped between apartment complexes, with the front windows covered with clear tarp. The only things that indicated it currently had vacancy was the large tapestry banner hanging above the door with a picture of a yellow dragon and a red and blue insignia, and several round, red, paper lanterns hanging by wires above the front walkway where people were piling in.

"What do you think?" Sherlock asked when he noticed her expression.

After a quick moment, she wrote down her answer for him:

 _You can definitely tell that they're only here for one night._

"Yes, they had to have come here in quite a hurry and find an open place to set up. Getting out of China is not an easy feat for its citizens," he said in agreement before turning to face straight ahead again. "Now, come on. I think I see your uncle going in."

They merged with the rest of the crowd and entered the building, Harley trying to look over everyone's shoulder to see if she could spot John's date, but they must've already gone in. She and Sherlock walked through the halls, basically following the lanterns hanging above them until they ended up on the floor above.

And just ahead of them, standing at the ticket booth, were John and his date, getting their reserved tickets. Harley couldn't get a proper view of the woman currently standing very close to her uncle as she and Sherlock started to approach them; John was mostly blocking her view.

"Actually, I have four tickets in that name," she heard the ticket master say from behind the booth.

John looked confused. "No, I don't think so. We only booked two."

"And then I phoned back and got two more for myself and Harley as well," Sherlock said, finally making themselves known to the two of them. John looked up in disbelief, turning to face them. But he looked more astonished to see Harley there than anything.

"I'm Sherlock," said the detective, holding his hand out to the woman, who glanced at John momentarily before shaking his hand. "Err, hi," she said awkwardly.

"Hello." Sherlock gave a quick, fake smile before turning his back on them and walking away. Harley, however, stayed behind. She looked over at John, who seemed to still be grasping that fact that his flatmate and niece were interfering with his date, all while the woman looked between the two in initial confusion.

Harley raised an eyebrow at him, her eyes darting from him to her. _Well, are you going to introduce me or not?_

John let out a sigh. "Sarah, this is my niece, Harley. Harley, this is Sarah."

"Oh, um, very nice to meet you, Harley," Sarah said, regaining her posture and holding her hand out to the girl with a smile.

Harley's eyes moved up and down the woman as they shook hands, doing a quick once-over. Long, straight, brown hair; fair skin; a couple of inches shorter than John (that was a rarity); wearing a dark gray blazer over a brown shirt and a black and white skirt and leggings. She was pretty, Harley admitted— not that it meant anything, of course.

She realized that she was staring for too long, because Sarah was beginning to look a bit uncomfortable under her blank gaze and silence. Harley gave the brightest smile she could possibly muster before she turned and started heading off the direction she saw Sherlock go. She'd just leave John to explain to his date about the whole mute thing. As soon as Harley turned her back on them, her little smile vanished completely.

She found Sherlock standing in the middle of the stairs on the side, looking around, eyeing some of the people passing by. She approached him just as he turned to face her, and she wrote:

 _Seen anything suspicious yet?_

He shook his head, looking around some more. Then he turned back to her. "So, what do you think of John's date?" he asked, an eyebrow slightly raised.

She looked back down the stairs with a small frown, then back at him. _Decision still pending,_ she wrote.

A small smirk appeared on his face. "I can help with that."

She looked up at him in confusion before he opened his mouth and started spewing out facts about the woman.

"Sarah. Works at the surgery with John. Moderately intelligent— at least as far as her medical knowledge goes. Owns one cat. Hardly cooks. Romantic. Only takes alcohol in moderation. Lives alone in a mid-scale apartment. She usually doesn't go out much on her time off, only whenever she feels spontaneous. Like tonight. She's wearing a brand of make-up she doesn't normally wear to make a good impression on John— clearly infatuated with him." Then he too looked back the way they came from with a slight frown. "A bit boring, if you ask me."

Harley stared at him for a moment, impressed that he had gotten all of that. Then she shook her head and wrote down:

 _Boring's not very appealing, yes, but my biggest deal-breaker is whether or not she's a narrow-minded idiot._

"Hmm, that _would_ be tediously annoying, yes," he muttered with a hum, starting to look around once again.

 _That's an understatement,_ Harley thought bitterly. Not only was it annoying— it was excruciating. She could hardly count how many of the people she's met (whether it was John's girlfriends or anyone she came across) have taken one look at her after finding out about her condition, and saying things behind her back, like, "Oh, I'm sure it's just a phase," or, "Has she even tried to talk?" or, "She's just shy." As if they knew exactly what her problem was when they hardly even got to know her. But what was worse was when they said these things right in front of her. Like, _hello?! I'm mute, I'm not deaf too!_

She sighed, trying to shake away the thoughts and bad memories for the sake of this evening, and started to look around as well. She didn't get too far, though, because John came around the corner and walked up the stairs toward them, looking really annoyed.

"What are you two doing here?" John asked them.

"Enjoying the circus. I did say we needed some air," Sherlock answered simply.

 _Innocently,_ Harley mentally added with a small smile. Then she noticed that John's date was nowhere to be seen. She wrote down a note and held it up to her uncle: _Where's your lady love?_

John wasn't so amused with her bantering this time. "She's using the loo, and her name is Sarah, Harley," he said flatly before looking back at Sherlock. "Now, seriously, what are you doing here? You couldn't let me have just one night off?"

Sherlock, deciding it was best to come clean, replied, "Yellow Dragon Circus, in London for one night only. It _fits_. The Tong sent an assassin to England—"

John cut him off with a scoff, nodding unconvincingly, "Yeah, dressed as a tightrope walker?" He then lowered his voice and hissed, "Come on, Sherlock, behave!"

Harley quirked an eyebrow at that. _Wait, who's the twelve-year-old here? Me, or him?_

"We're looking for a killer who can climb— who can shin up a rope. Where else would you find that level of dexterity?" Sherlock argued. "Exit visas are scarce in China. They need a pretty good reason to get out of that country."

John looked over at Harley. "And you…did you know about this?"

Not even missing a beat, she nodded with a small, proud smile.

"Yes, now, all I need to do is to have a quick look around the place, and—" Sherlock tried to explain, but John cut him off again, having heard more than enough.

"Fine. You do that. I'm going to take Harley home and then Sarah for a pint." John tried to reach for Harley's hand, but Sherlock stepped in.

"No, I need your help," he said sternly.

John glared back just as sternly as he tried to keep his voice at level. "I do have a couple of other things on my mind this evening besides you, me, and my kid niece tracking down smugglers!"

"Like what?" Sherlock asked incredulously, like he genuinely didn't know.

John reeled back in disbelief. "You _are_ kidding."

Sherlock looked around before lowering his voice as well. "What's so important?"

"Sherlock, I'm right in the middle of a date! You want me to chase some killer while I'm trying to…" he trailed off, clearly losing what patience he had left.

"What?" Sherlock pressed.

Then, from behind John, Harley could see Sarah rounding the corner and start up the stairs toward them while John licked his lips frustratingly, preparing to answer. A mischievous smirk began to grow from Harley's lips. _Oh, this ought to be delicious,_ she mused, turning back to her uncle. _Come on, John! Say it loud, say it proud!_

"…while I'm trying to get off with Sarah!" John finally snapped, loud enough for anyone within hearing range to hear— especially Sarah.

Suddenly, Jim Carrey's voice bellowed in Harley's head, _AND THE TRUTH SHALL SET YOU FREE!_

She crossed her arms, her smirk still evident, as she watched John turn and finally notice Sarah standing beside him, and he smiled awkwardly. "Heyyyy, ready?" he said, trying to save himself from further embarrassment.

"Yeah," Sarah replied. Her smile was just as awkward, though she seemed to find it a little more amusing than he did.

Sherlock just rolled his eyes before he took Harley by the arm and started up the stairs, pulling her along with him. Once they reached the top, they entered a large, dimly lit room: the performing arts center. The stage on the far side of the hall stood unused, its curtains drawn. Instead, there was a large, perfect circle of candles laid around the spacious floor. Inside the circle on the right side was some sort of large object hidden underneath a dark sheet, and on the opposite side stood a wooden board with leather straps attached to it. Spectators began to gather around the circle, murmuring excitedly amongst themselves as they waited for the show to start.

Harley looked all around the room, way up to the ceiling high above them in wonder. The place seemed very eerie, yet at the same time, a bit inviting.

"You said circus; this is not a circus," John said softly to Sherlock so that Sarah wouldn't hear. "Look at the size of this crowd. Sherlock, this is…art."

"This is not their day job," Sherlock responded over his shoulder.

"No, sorry, I forgot. They're not a circus; they're a gang of international smugglers," John said sarcastically, earning a look from the detective.

Suddenly, there came a soft, percussive beat of a small hand drum, signifying that the show was starting. The room instantly fell silent. John and Sarah stood in front of the edge of the circle, getting a good view of the show, while Sherlock stood behind them, his six-foot height allowing him to see over their heads. Harley stood just a little ways away from him, behind John and his date but still able to see what was happening.

The drumbeat started to grow louder and faster as a Chinese woman walked into the center of the circle: the ringleader. She wore traditional Chinese clothing— a long, red garment traced with gold. Her face was powdered white with some red blush around her cheeks, with thick black eyeliner traced around her eyes and blood red lips.

Harley's eyebrows furrowed as she stared. Perhaps it was the dim lighting, but there was something strangely familiar about the complexion of that woman's face.

The ringleader looked out at the audience, then elegantly raised a hand in the air. The small patter of the hand drum ceased, only to be replaced by an even deeper, louder drumbeat. The woman walked across the circle to the right side and pulled the sheet off the object, revealing it to be a large, old-looking crossbow on a stand.

Harley could feel her insides constrict as she took in what she was seeing. _Oh, this is one of_ those _performances,_ she thought, her eyes flickering from the crossbow to the board, finally noticing the holes pierced into it— where a person could be standing. Her eyes landed back on the woman, who had taken a long, wooden arrow with a deadly sharp metal point on one end, and white feathers sticking out of the other end. The ringleader showed it to the audience before she carefully placed it in the crossbow. Then she plucked a feather out of her headpiece and delicately held it over the silver bowl at the end of the contraption. Then, she let it go.

The second the feather made contact with the bowl, the crossbow released the arrow with a crackling snap, sending it whooshing across the room and embedding itself deep into the board. Harley winced at the noise it produced, impulsively shutting her eyes and bringing her hands to her ears. A few seconds later, she reopened her eyes and removed her hands from her ears, breathing heavily through her nose.

 _Come on, Harley. Keep it together, it's just an act. What are you so afraid of?_ she reprimanded herself as she calmed herself down. In front of her, Sarah was laughing, a hand over her heart in dramatic relief as she leaned against John, who had a sort of triumphant smile. _Oh, brilliant,_ Harley thought, glaring at them lightly before locking her eyes back on the performance. She failed to notice that Sherlock had been watching her silently out of the corner of his eye.

The audience applauded as instrumental music began to play. A new person stepped into the ring— a man wearing a warrior's mask and chainmail armor over his chest. He held his arms out as two other men approached him with chains. The masked man folded his arms in front over his chest as the two others started to wrap the heavy chains and straps around him, backing him up against the board where the arrow had been removed and keeping him in place there.

"Classic Chinese escapology act," Sherlock said softly, but Harley, John, and Sarah could still hear him over the music.

"Hmm?" John hummed.

"The crossbow's on a delicate string," he explained. "The warrior has to escape his bonds before it fires."

 _Sounds like a relaxing remedy,_ Harley thought wryly.

The ringleader loaded another arrow into the crossbow as the men added more padlocks to the chains, keeping the warrior firmly in place. When they tightened the chains around him, he yelled and grunted. Harley's jaw tightened.

Once they finished, the drumbeat started to move faster again. Then cymbals clashed together unexpectedly. Harley's shoulders stiffened, her hands clenching into fists. Sarah jumped at the clash, letting out a yelp and grasping onto John's arm.

"Oh! Oh, God, I'm sorry," she whispered with a laugh of embarrassment. John laughed along with her until his laughter faded into a smile of delight when Sarah kept one arm linked tightly with his.

Harley couldn't help it— she rolled her eyes. It was pretty evident to herself that she was growing more and more irritated with all that was going on around her. She let out a heavy breath, trying to regain control of her emotions as she continued to watch.

The ringleader pulled out a knife and showed it to the audience.

"She splits the sandbag; the sand pours out. Gradually, the weight lowers into the bowl," Sherlock told them as the woman proceeded to do exactly what he described. She reached up and stabbed the knife into the bottom of a sandbag, which was hanging by a long cable that was looped over a pulley high up, and a metal weight ball attached to the other end. The sand began to slowly pour out of the ripped bag, making it rise up as it grew lighter— and the metal ball lowering straight down toward the silver bowl. From the other side, the warrior yelled as he struggled to get out of his bonds, the weight lowering closer and closer to the bowl.

As the warrior was trying to escape, Harley took a step back and turned away, starting to look around the hall— basically anywhere but the performance, but she could still hear him grunting. It wasn't much because the suspense was too much for her. She's read about these kinds of acts before, and has seen them on the television a couple of times too. She knew how it ended, and only very rarely did something go wrong. They did have safety measures, after all.

She supposed she just didn't want to find out if this was one of those rare times.

Suddenly a hand was on her shoulder. Flinching a little, she turned and looked up to see Sherlock.

"Escapology not your best interest, is it?" he asked her softly.

 _Umm, big no,_ she thought as she shook her head admittedly.

He smirked. "Then come with me," was all he said before he turned and stalked around the candles in the darkness. Harley watched him go, puzzled. Then, glancing at all of the patrons who were still too busy focusing on the performance, she quickly but quietly slipped away from her uncle and his date and caught up with Sherlock. She'd let them have their time alone while she and Sherlock went to investigate; to her reluctance.

They reached the far side of the room and, opening up the curtain, they snuck inside to the backstage. From the other side of the curtain, Harley heard cheering and applause, so she assumed the escapologist made it out okay.

They began to look around, finding that the backstage was primarily being used as a dressing room for the performers. There was a dressing table with lighted mirrors, a clothes rack filled to its capacity with costumes, and various drawers filled with make-up and other miscellaneous items. Harley did a double take when she spotted a life-like figure with chainmail armor and a mask propped up on a stand, thinking it was a real person at first. She shook her head before continuing to look around. She passed the dressing table, eyeing some of the items on the table— a mobile phone, some facial powder and make-up, pencil lining, papers with schedules and ticket counts of the show, and a cigarette lighter.

Music began to play again from the other side of the curtain, this time a little more upbeat than from the last act. Sherlock walked over to the curtain and parted them slightly to look out. Harley stepped up beside him as they watched a man wearing a leather mask gliding through the air, supporting his weight on two red bands.

"Well, well," Sherlock murmured.

 _There's our acrobat,_ Harley thought. She focused her gaze ahead and spotted John amongst the crowd, watching the performance with awe.

Suddenly, a door opened loudly from the right side of the stage; someone was coming. With a jolt, Harley spun and ran for a place to hide. She dove into the clothing rack closest to her and squatted down. Only a second after she did so, Sherlock came in through the rack as well, joining her.

"Scoot over," he told her in a hushed whisper as he quickly shoved the clothes back into place and crouched down beside her.

 _Find your own hiding place,_ she mentally chided, but she moved over a bit to give him more room anyway and kept quiet and still, for the ringleader woman had entered the backstage.

The woman walked up to the dressing table and picked up the mobile phone, checking the screen for a moment. Sherlock peeked over the clothes to see her. Then one of the hangers on the rack fell to the floor with a clash, making the woman snap her head up and look around. Sherlock quickly ducked down.

Harley inwardly groaned as she sat there with her knees to her chest. _Why is it that every time someone tries to hide, something has to fall over?! That is_ so _cliché!_

She heard the woman walking across the stage again, and Sherlock lowered himself even more. Then there was the sound of the door closing; the woman was gone. Meanwhile, Harley looked down and noticed for the first time that there was a black, open canvas bag lying in front of her feet between her and Sherlock. With a frown, she opened the bag up wider, and saw several canisters of spray paint inside. Sherlock noticed it too. He grabbed one of the cans from the bag and held it up so they could see it better. The can was labeled, "Michigan," and on the bottom of the can was a yellow band around it, indicating its color scheme.

"Found you," Sherlock said in a low, sing-song voice, sending Harley a triumphant smirk before he stood and pushed himself through the clothes rail. Harley stood up and got out of the clothes rack as well. They walked over to the dressing table, Sherlock shaking the can as they went. He sprayed a yellow horizontal line across the mirror, and he and Harley leaned closer to examine it.

 _Yep, it's the same paint, alright._

Unfortunately, they didn't get the chance to look at it for very long.

It was Sherlock who saw it first. The slightest movement in the mirror out of the corner of his eye made him frown as he looked closer at the reflection. Harley saw it a second later. The warrior's costume that was supposedly on a stand was slowly turning with a creak, facing right at them.

Harley's eyes widened as she realized that there was no stand anymore— there was a real person underneath that armor.

Suddenly, the warrior charged toward them, raising a curved sword to attack.

Everything happened so quick after that. Sherlock shoved Harley out of the way in a split second, making her fall to the floor, before he quickly ducked backwards to avoid the oncoming blows as the assassin lashed out at him with his sword. Harley let out sharp breaths as she struggled to get up in a slight daze; she wasn't hurt, she just had the wind knocked out of her and taken by surprise. Then she looked up and saw, to both her amazement and terror, that Sherlock was fighting it off against the warrior.

He continued to move this way and that against the curtain, dodging the attacker's fast swings from his sword. When the attacker swiped his sword straight down on him, Sherlock used the spray paint can he was holding to block it. Then he ducked below another fatal swing and struck the man in the elbow with the can, only to have the warrior kick him hard in the stomach in return, earning an "Oof!" out of him. Then the warrior dropped his sword, only to grab Sherlock by the throat and shove him backwards as he started to throttle him.

Harley gasped, her eyes widening even more as she watched in horror. This was bad, very bad. She remembered when they were at Soo Lin Yao's flat, when she could hear Sherlock struggling for his life inside the apartment while she was just outside— when she felt completely powerless to do anything about it. To help him. This was going to be just like that all over again.

But not unless she did something now, and _fast_.

She frantically started looking around her while they continued to fight, her eyes wildly scanning everything in her reach, trying to find something she could use to help Sherlock— or at least distract the attacker long enough.

Her eyes suddenly landed on the cigarette lighter lying on the floor, knocked off the table earlier during the hustle. Seeing the lighter, and remembering the canvas bag of spray paint near her gave her an idea— probably the stupidest idea she's ever had.

There was no time to think about that, though. In an instant she swiped up the can nearest to her and the lighter, hoping to God or whatever higher power was out there that this plan would work. She leaped up and turned just in time to see the attacker knocked backwards by a powerful punch from Sherlock, only to quickly jump back up kick Sherlock back in the process, making him stumble and struggle to keep his footing. The warrior reached for his sword and sprang at Sherlock once more.

Harley was not aware of the very slim chances she— a twelve-year-old girl who barely even reached her growth spurt yet— had against a trained assassin. All she knew was that barely a second later she was sprinting toward them, furiously shaking the can and trying to click a fire going. Just as the attacker was about to swing his sword down, Harley had swooped in between them, igniting the cigarette lighter and aiming right at the attacker's face. Then, before either one of them could react or process what she was doing, she pushed down on the spray can activator as hard as she could.

 _FWOOM!_

The attacker screamed as a huge, bright wave of fire roared to life at him, flames licking at his face before he scrambled backwards. Apparently, they didn't manufacture those masks to be fireproof. The attacker ripped off the mask and held his face with pain. Harley squinted her eyes and looked away slightly, feeling her fingers around the spray can beginning to hurt; that fire was _hot._ Raz was right— that was some hardcore propellant spray. But she kept the attacker at bay with her makeshift flamethrower, waving it towards his feet a little so he wouldn't try to get near them again— though, he seemed pretty occupied with writhing back in pain to attempt it. Too soon, the paint ran out, the fire shrinking into a small kindle at the tip. She threw the can hard at his head, earning another shout from him, and she quickly backed away, breathing heavily.

Harley looked back at Sherlock, who straightened. She gave him a desperate, questioning look. _Are you alright?_

Sherlock said nothing, just staring at her. He opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a roar. They turned in shock to see the attacker lunging at them in disoriented rage, parts of his face red and blistered.

"Harley!" Sherlock yelled, pulling her out of the way just as the attacker approached, spinning in the air and aiming a kick at Sherlock. He was propelled right through the curtain and landed on the floor with a thud, knocking the wind out of him. In a panic, Harley ran and jumped off the stage to get to Sherlock and help. The assassin leaped off the stage after her with a flip, sword in tow again. He stumbled to the ground, still grimacing in pain from his seared face, before he straightened. With a growl, he went after the detective and the girl once more.

The commotion caused the crowd to go into a state of alarm. People yelled and ran toward the exit— including the circus crew. The acrobat ripped off his leather mask, took one look at the scene unfolding, and then turned and ran for it. The only ones who stayed behind were John and Sarah, who looked on in shock and fear.

Seeing his friend and niece in trouble, protective instinct shot through John's veins, and he sprinted into action. With a yell, he shoved the attacker away from them, slamming him against the stage. Unfortunately, it wasn't enough. The attacker knocked him away with a good side kick, sending him to the ground.

Sarah soon snapped out of her stupor and, looking around, she grabbed one of the wooden arrows from the escapology act nearby and ran towards them. With all her might, she started smacking the attacker on the back and head repeatedly until he fell over with a groan. And this time, he didn't get back up.

With the threat down for the count, John hurried over to his niece with a slight limp in his step from the blow earlier. "Harley, are you alright?" he asked, concern and worry written all over his face as he looked her up and down to see if she was hurt.

Harley, her gaze still locked cautiously on the almost unconscious assassin and still standing between him and Sherlock in defense, swallowed and nodded in response. Sarah came over to the two of them, throwing down the stick in the process, and looked her over as well.

Then Sherlock crawled over to the dazed attacker, yanking off one of his shoes. Harley tilted her head and narrowed her eyes at what she saw. Under the heel of the attacker's foot was a black tattoo of a flower inside a thin circle.

 _The Black Lotus._

After revealing the tattoo, Sherlock got to his feet and said, "Come on, let's go!" before breaking into a run toward the exit, leading the way. John took Sarah's hand with one, and Harley's hand with another. With a final look back, they turned and raced out of there as fast as they possibly could, leaving the place behind for good.

* * *

 **A/N- *rereads chapter, then looks up with a blank stare* ...I think I may or may not have turned Harley and Sherlock into John's matchmakers...*shrugs dismissively* Oh, well.**

 **Oh, and ATTENTION! I just want to give y'all a heads up: Starting July 19, I may not be able to update as frequently as I usually do. One of my friends is moving to Virginia, and she offered me to stay with her for a month. Of course, I'm bringing my work with me, but I'm not sure how often I'll be able to write when I'm there. So, just a quick warning for you faithful readers, rip the Band-Aid clean off now.**

 **Hopefully, I'll get the next chapter up and running before I leave. Until then, Good day/night/ghostworld, my lovelies!**

 **P.S.- The Jim Carrey reference was from the movie, _Liar Liar_ , just in case you were interested. XD**

 **P.P.S.- You guys seen the promotional image as well as the first look into the Sherlock Special yet?**

 **...I'm going to bed happy tonight.**


	14. DEAD MAN

**A/N- Hey, all! I've got some good news, and I've got some bad news.**

 **GOOD NEWS: I got chapter fourteen finished before I left to Virginia for a month!**

 **BAD NEWS: This chapter ends on a cliffhanger...and I'm not 100% sure how much free time I'll have to write this story while I'm gone.**

 **Eh heheheh...sorry?**

 **Disclaimer: I only own my OC.**

 **Enjoy! ...while you can. *evil smirk***

* * *

Harley was in so much trouble. She just knew it.

She'd been thinking this ever since they all ran out of the theatre house and piled into a cab— among other things along the similar lines, like, _Oh, God, I am so dead! Uncle John is going to kill me, bury me, and then do the Rain Dance on my grave!_

She could tell because even after making a quick call to Scotland Yard, Sherlock would not stop staring at her as they sped out of the area and through the streets of London. What was worse was that his face was completely dispassionate— no sign of emotion at all. She couldn't tell if he was angry or not, but if on the high chance that he was, she didn't fault him one bit. What was she thinking? Going up against a smuggler/assassin? With spray paint and a lighter? How could she be so stupid? Now Sherlock was going to tell her uncle, and in turn, he would destroy her. And it would _not_ be done with mercy.

It occurred to her that she may be over exaggerating here, but when it came to John Hamish Watson, you can never tell what he'd do if you made him stressed or angry enough. And what she did would most definitely stress him to the point of at least five added gray hairs.

That was why she was currently sitting at the very end of the back seat, pressed against her window— as if trying not to touch anyone else in the cab— with her head down, staring intently at her repeatedly tapping feet against the floor. Yet, she could still just _feel_ the weight of Sherlock's gaze on her.

 _Any second now, he's going to say something,_ she thought in despair.

But surprisingly, it was deadly silent as they rode in the cab, as if everyone was still trying to grasp what had just happened to each of them at the circus. Sherlock and John seemed pretty calm about it, though John would often glance over at her in concern. Sarah was the only one who appeared to be visibly shaken up about it. Harley acknowledged what the woman did to fend off the attacker with the arrow; that was really cool. _Bonus points to Sarah for that act of awesomeness._

Then Harley grimaced and held her right hand closer into her jacket against her chest. Her fingers were stinging like crazy, with their own pounding heartbeats— ever since she pulled her little stunt. They must've gotten burned a little in the process.

 _Great. As if things weren't getting bad enough,_ she thought as she took a slow, long breath, trying to block out the pain.

To her relief, no one had said anything until they pulled up in front of Scotland Yard. They exited the cab, only to hurry inside, heading up to Dimmock's division. Sarah followed hurriedly behind, looking bewildered. Harley took it John hadn't exactly told her everything about his hobbies, and his flatmate's career.

They soon met up with the Detective Inspector, who wasn't exactly in the best of moods— not to say he was ever in a good mood whenever Harley encountered him.

"I sent a couple of cars. The old hall is totally deserted," Dimmock said as he stormed through the office, the four of them following suit.

"Look, I saw the mark at the circus. The tattoo that we saw on the two bodies— the mark of the Tong," Sherlock said insistently as Dimmock went around his desk and then turned to face them, his hands on his hips in that pompous, disbelieving air again.

"Lukis and Van Coon were part of a smuggling operation," John explained more calmly. "Now, one of them stole something when they were in China— something valuable."

"These circus performers were gang members sent here to get it back," Sherlock finished.

"Get what back?" Dimmock asked them.

At first, everyone was silent. Sherlock looked away, biting his lip angrily.

"We don't know," John finally replied hesitantly.

 _And there's the drop of the penny,_ Harley thought with a sigh.

"You don't know," Dimmock repeated incredulously.

Again, no one spoke.

"Mr. Holmes," Dimmock said indignantly, sitting down in his chair, "I've done everything you asked, and Lestrade— he seems to think your advice is worth something."

Sherlock lifted his head at this, his lips barely showing a faint smile. Harley didn't know of this Lestrade fellow they keep mentioning, but whoever he was, he sounded a lot more reasonable than this yahoo sitting in front of her.

"I gave the order for a raid," the Inspector continued, "Please tell me I'll have something to show for it…other than a massive bill for overtime."

Harley's eyes flashed as she stared at Dimmock, hardly having the tolerance for him any longer. She was not having a good night so far; she was nearly sliced by an assassin, got her fingers burned— she might get in trouble later for it— and now this man's attitude just about pushed her over the edge. People were dying, Sherlock had basically just given him an international smuggling ring on a platter that could prevent more lives from being lost— for free, she might add…and he was more worried about overtime? The guy seriously needed to get his priorities straight.

And of course, Harley wasn't capable of telling him off for any of this. It was physically _and_ mentally agonizing. Instead, she just turned on her heel and started heading out, feeling like if she stayed for any longer, her head might explode. She waited outside the office, but she only needed to wait for a minute, because soon the three adults exited the office, and they started to leave the premises.

"Well, I admit, this date is the most exciting I've ever been on," Sarah broke the silence, trying to light up the mood as they got back into the cab. It only worked on John, though.

The ex-army doctor snickered. "Yeah, how often do you go to a circus with smuggling warriors in disguise?" he said, a bit flirtatiously, making Sarah giggle.

Harley hid a repulsed face behind their backs. _Ugh. Can you guys not do that while I'm within ten feet of you?_

"Did you see that guy's face, though?" Sarah asked. "The attacker, I mean. It looked like he stuck his head in an oven."

"Yeah, I noticed that too," John agreed. Then he turned to Sherlock. "Did you do that?"

Harley could feel her blood run cold as she snapped her head up in time to see Sherlock begin to answer. _Uh oh…_

"Actually, that was…" but Sherlock trailed off, his eyes landing on Harley, an eyebrow raising only a miniscule fraction at the stricken look she currently had. She quickly looked away, bracing herself. _Just get it over with._

"…that was what he looked like when I first encountered him," Sherlock finally said after a short moment's pause, "Must have been in an accident long before we arrived."

Harley blinked and glanced over at him, utterly perplexed, before quickly concealing her surprise so neither John or Sarah would see it.

"Really? Wonder what kind of accident it was, then," John said thoughtfully, wrapping an arm around Sarah's shoulder, before the cab ride continued on in silence again.

Harley felt a strange wave of relief wash through her. _So I'm not going to die by the hands of my uncle anytime soon after all. That's good._

But then she glanced over in Sherlock's direction again, and she found him staring at her with that indifferent expression that made her unsure what he was thinking. However, the message he was sending was quite clear: he wasn't finished with her yet. Just like that, the relief she felt for that one tiny moment had vanished into thin air. She looked down at her shoes once more, feeling dread creep back up into her veins. She knew what her uncle was capable of, but she had no idea about Sherlock.

After what seemed like an extremely long drive, they finally made it back to Baker Street. They walked upstairs and into 221B, Harley taking up the rear somberly.

"They'll be back in China by tomorrow," John spoke, referring to the smugglers.

"No, they won't leave without what they came for," Sherlock contradicted as he took off his gloves, coat, and scarf. He walked around the crates and approached the fireplace, looking at the collage. "We need to find their hideout— their rendezvous. Somewhere in this message it must tell us." He ran a hand over one of the photos of the ciphers, staring intently.

For a long moment, silence fell between the four occupants in the flat. Then Sarah, looking between the two men awkwardly, broke the silence and said, "Well, I think perhaps I should leave you to it."

That was rewarded by a variety of responses from both men at the exact same time. "No, no, you don't have to go. You can stay," John assured her, just as Sherlock said, "Yes, it would be better to study if you left now."

John threw Sherlock a dark look before turning back to Sarah. "He's kidding, of course. Stay, if you like."

Sarah played with her earlobe uncertainly for a moment. Then, with a hesitant smile, she said brightly, "Is it just me, or is anyone else starving?"

"Ohh, God," Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes.

Harley ran her good hand through her hair tiredly. She could hardly even think about food at a time like this.

Then Sherlock took some of the photos off the wall, along with notes and drawings of pictograms, and moved to the desk, scattering them over the table before sitting down to further examine them. Meanwhile, John and Sarah disappeared into the kitchen together. Harley could hear them talking amongst themselves, but she couldn't pay attention to what it is they were saying.

Because only a few seconds after they left, leaving her alone with Sherlock, the consulting detective called over his shoulder in his low, baritone voice, "Harley." Then he gestured to the chair next to him, wordlessly commanding her to come sit.

Harley suddenly felt very, very small. She pictured that one scene in _The Lion King_ , when Mufasa was about to teach Simba a lesson when he disobeyed his father's orders, and Simba cowered into the grass in fear. Harley felt just like Simba in that moment, only this time, she didn't have any grass she could sink down into to hide in. She had to face what she was going to get head on.

With a silent gulp and clutching her notebook in both hands, she trudged numbly across the room and sat down in the seat. For a moment, she kept her eyes on the table before her, before gathering up her courage and lifting her head up to meet Sherlock's icy gaze.

When he spoke, his tone was low, yet collected, "What happened back at the circus—"

She didn't even let him finish that sentence as she quickly slid her notebook across to him, her apology already written out for him:

 _I'm sorry. I know that it was stupid of me. I promise I won't do it again._

She knew that on paper, she sounded calm, but in her mind, she was sincere— pleading, even.

"In some eyes, yes, it _was_ stupid," Sherlock said, his eyes narrowing. "You could've gotten seriously hurt, or worse."

Harley lowered her head again, her face hardening, trying not to look as ashamed on the outside as much as she felt on the inside.

After a short pause, Sherlock spoke again, "Fortunately, I don't like to dwell on what could've happened. I find it a waste of time, seeing as it didn't happen anyway. And what I was going to say was, back at the circus…" he hesitated for a moment, "that was also…very resourceful of you."

Harley's mouth parted for a second before she quickly closed it. She looked back up at him, stunned, as he continued, "Ordinary people don't always think rationally when thrust into a dangerous situation, but you think fast. That was…that was quite good."

Harley could feel her face blushing furiously, not knowing how to respond to such a statement. She thought he was going to yell at her, but instead the opposite happened. Biting her lip, she looked down at her hand, which she still held curled into a fist against her chest, and it was still hurting.

Sherlock's eyes followed hers down to her hand as well. "Here," he said, holding his hand out.

Harley was unsure at first, but after concluding that he wasn't going to hurt her, she extended her hand and allowed him to take it. He turned her hand over and uncurled her fingers, inspecting the damage. "Superficial first-degree burns," he mused aloud, gently tracing the red splotches on her fingers with his own, the action making her wince a little. "Only as deep as the epidermis. Nothing too serious. Should heal fully in five days, maybe more, depending on how well you treat it." Then he smirked in amusement as he looked up at her. "Can't say the same for the fellow you torched at the circus, though."

Harley could feel herself blushing again, but for a different reason. The corner of her lips twitched up into a bashful smile as he let her take her hand back. She wrote out: _It was all I could think of with what I had at the time._

His smirk spread into a smile at her modesty; however, as soon as it appeared, it vanished, a thought occurring to him as he looked at her seriously. "Why didn't you want me to tell your uncle?"

Harley's smile faded as well, feeling like she had been called out. She looked away and shrugged.

"That's not an answer. Tell me."

Her eyes flicked back to him. Then, letting out a breath in defeat, she wrote: _If he finds out, he'll keep me from helping out anymore, not to mention he'd probably blame you for it. Or worse, he'll send me home early._

Then, after a pause, she added diffidently, _I don't want to go home yet._

Sherlock stared at the note, then back up at her, tilting his head slightly. "…You don't?" he asked her, his tone just barely reaching incredulousness.

She shook her head truthfully. She really didn't, not when she was just beginning to have the most fun she'd had in a long time…and not when she was just starting to take her mind off of all the things going on with her mother and Clara back home. But there was no way she was going to tell him that.

Luckily, she didn't have to. Sarah had come into the living room while John stayed in the kitchen to whip up something for them to eat. Sherlock and Harley glanced back at Sarah, who was standing in front of the fireplace, looking at the photos curiously. The two exchanged a look before looking back down at the notes on the desk, dropping the subject they were talking about previously and getting back to work.

"So this is what you do, you and John," Sarah said to Sherlock, "You solve puzzles for a living."

Harley looked at her impassively. _Well, when you put it like that, they sound about as downgrading as, say, the Scooby Doo gang._

Apparently, Sherlock didn't appreciate the statement either. "Consulting detective," he corrected tetchily.

"Oh," Sarah said in response. Then she turned to Harley. "And you…you help out a bit too? When you're here?"

 _Don't take me as some temp girl,_ Harley thought, unamused, while at the same time, Sherlock answered blandly, "Yes," which made her glance at him once before looking back down at the photos.

"Oh…sorry," Sarah said uncomfortably. From the kitchen, Harley could hear John searching through the cabinets. She snuck a look and saw John open up a jar, sniff it, then pull it away in disgust. It appeared he was having the same problem Harley had the night before in searching for something edible.

Then Sarah moved from the middle of the living room to where Harley and Sherlock sat, hovering over the detective's shoulder. "What are these squiggles?" she asked, pointing at the pictures he was looking at.

Sherlock looked straight ahead with an irritated face, looking like he was refraining himself from punching her. "They're numbers," he replied tersely, "an ancient Chinese dialect."

"Oh, right! Yeah, well, of course I should've known that," Sarah said with fake innocence.

Harley turned her head away when she felt her mouth twitch up again. _Okay, okay, give her a point for temperate levels of sass,_ she thought. Then she heard a faint knock and a hoot from the other side of the room. She looked over to see Mrs. Hudson enter the kitchen, carrying a tray with a towel covering its contents. The landlady whispered something to John while removing the towel, revealing a jug of punch, and some crisps and dip. John whispered something back while looking at her with adoration and gratitude. Harley smirked. _Mrs. Hudson saves the day again._

As Mrs. Hudson was making her leave, she caught Harley's gaze, and she winked knowingly before heading down the stairs. Harley bet that the landlady had made those nibbles more for John and Sherlock instead of for John and Sarah. She ran a hand down her face.

Speaking of Sarah, the woman had taken one of the evidence bags with the photos from the table and started looking at it leisurely. Sherlock glared at her, not even trying to hide his anger, before looking away with his teeth bared. He caught Harley's eye with a look like, _Should I kill her?_ And Harley raised her eyebrows slightly with a pointed look. _Hey, buddy, I've had to deal with this for years. If you're going to live with John, then you'll have to suffer with me,_ she thought.

"So these numbers— it's a cipher," Sarah said, oblivious to their silent conversation and Sherlock's annoyance.

"Exactly," he answered tightly.

"And each pair of numbers is a word."

It was like the mood in the room changed in that instant for the two of them. They turned their heads and looked at her. "How did you know that?" Sherlock demanded.

"Well, two words have already been translated here," she told him as she put the photo down and pointed. They leaned forward, looking closely. Sure enough, written on the first two symbols, in black ink pen and fine handwriting, were the words, _NINE_ and _MILL_.

"John," Sherlock called, taking the photos as he stood.

"Hmm?" John looked round at them from the kitchen.

"John, look at this." Sherlock ripped the photos from the evidence bag and unfolded it as John came over and looked over his shoulder. "Soo Lin at the museum— she started to translate the code for us. We didn't see it."

Harley looked at the words once more, understanding why they didn't catch it. The handwriting was so thin against the dark colors of the photo, almost invisible; you had to squint to catch it.

"'Nine,' 'mill,'" Sherlock read aloud.

"Does that mean millions?" John questioned.

Sherlock stared ahead. "Nine million quid. For what?" he said thoughtfully, speaking mostly to himself. Then he suddenly turned and went over to where he put down his coat and scarf. "We need to know the end of this sentence," he declared.

"Where are you going?" John asked him as the detective threw on his coat.

"To the museum— to the restoration room. Oh, we must've been staring right at it!" he said in exasperation.

"At- at what?"

"The book, John! The _book_ — the key to cracking the cipher!" Sherlock brandished the photo in front of him as he spoke fast, "Soo Lin used it to do this! Whilst we were running around the gallery, she started to translate the code! It must be on her desk!"

And with a whirl and a swish of his coat, he ran out the door, bounding down the stairs until he was out the door with a slam.

 _There's no stopping him,_ Harley thought with a small smile.

John let out a sigh before he started to usher Sarah back into the kitchen, intent on serving her those snacks Mrs. Hudson was gracious enough to offer. When he did, though, he came back to the living room to Harley.

"Hey, you sure you're alright?" John asked her softly in concern. "A bit of a crazy night, hasn't it?"

Harley smiled while trying to hide her burnt fingers out of his view. She took her notebook and wrote: _Sorry we crashed your date._

John chuckled. "Surprisingly, I'm not too mad about that anymore."

She nodded. _Good, because if so, we would've crashed it anyway,_ she thought secretly.

"Speaking of, um…" he looked back in the kitchen, then back at her nervously, "I'm just going to, well…"

Harley, instantly understanding what it was that he wanted, wrote down: _It's fine. I'll probably just stay in here and read for a bit. You go have fun with Sarah._

Then, with a serious glint, she added, _But not TOO much fun._

"Ha, ha," John grunted snarkily, but he smiled nonetheless. He planted a kiss to her forehead. "Thanks, sweetheart. You're the best," he said, before turning back and meeting with Sarah again in the kitchen.

As soon as she was alone, Harley let out a long breath, then took one of the copies of _The_ _Art of War_ from one of her piles, flopping down onto the couch. She tried to concentrate on reading the passages, but John's and Sarah's hushed voices from the other room were distracting her a bit. They were making polite conversation until they were both laughing with each other.

Harley sighed, almost wishing that she had been fast enough to go with Sherlock back to the museum.

Then she heard John ask Sarah after an awkward silence, "Um, shall we get takeaway?"

"Yeah!" Sarah replied enthusiastically.

A few seconds later, John's head appeared in the doorway. "Hey, Harley, you want something to eat?"

She looked up from her book, and after thinking about it for a moment, she nodded.

"Come here, then."

She got up and entered the kitchen as he held out a menu for her. Chinese. _Again? Really, John?_

She pointed at the food she wanted, and with a nod in confirmation, he dialed up the restaurant. As he started to make the order, walking around the kitchen absentmindedly, Sarah looked up at Harley and smiled friendlily at her, but also rather nervously. Harley just looked back at her.

"Um…hello," Sarah said with somewhat forced politeness.

Harley merely raised her hand did a quick wave of acknowledgement. Sarah cleared her throat, smiled again, and looked away toward John.

Harley arched an eyebrow at the woman's demeanor. _Wait, is she intimidated by me?_ she wondered— not that it was the first time someone had found her silence unsettling, but still, _Hmm…I could use this if worse comes to worst._

She left the kitchen just as John had finished up the order, going back to reading her book. Hopefully, this time the two lovebirds will make googily eyes at each other a little more quietly.

But hardly two minutes later, there came a sharp knock on the door.

"Ooh, blimey, that was quick," John remarked as he strode across the kitchen and through the doorway into the hall. "I'll just pop down."

Harley closed her book, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. That _was_ quick. John had literally just ordered their food, and they were never that fast the last few times they got food from there.

"Do you want me to lay the table?" she heard Sarah ask John, who looked at the kitchen table with a grimace, noticing all of Sherlock's papers and experiments on it.

"Um, eat off trays?" he offered.

"Yeah," Sarah said quickly, most likely thinking the same thing as him.

Harley quickly stood just as John was heading down the stairs to fetch the food, feeling her stomach grow heavy. For some reason, something didn't feel right about this. Who delivered food only a few minutes after placing an order? She walked over to the top of the stairs just as John opened the front door.

"Sorry to keep you," he said to the person outside, digging around in his pockets for cash. "How much do I owe you?"

Harley squinted at the man wearing a black hoodie, the hood up and his hands in the front pocket. That bad feeling in her rose when she saw the distinct lack of food in his possession.

And it only rose higher when the man said urgently, "Do you have it?"

Eyes widening, she stepped back a little around the bannister, still able to peek around but hopefully out of their line of sight.

"What?" John asked blankly, looking back once before facing him again. Luckily, he didn't see her.

"Do you have the treasure?" the man demanded again, stepping forward.

"I…don't understand."

Then, to her horror, the man removed his right hand from his pocket, revealing a gun. He raised it only to bring it down hard against the side of John's head, and her uncle fell to the floor out cold.

Harley gasped and put a hand over her mouth, absolute fear rolling through her body. As the intruder— as well as a new person coming into view— started to drag her uncle away, she spun and ran back up the stairs. In the back of her now racing mind, she knew that it was too late to save her uncle, and she got the dreadful notion that they weren't stopping with him either. As soon as she reached the main floor, she quickly closed the door leading into the kitchen, locking it tight.

"Hey, what are you doing?" Sarah asked her in confusion, standing up from her chair.

Ignoring her, Harley scrambled around into the living room and closed that door off as well, her breathing growing heavy and rapid. She backed away from the door, running her hands through her hair and looking around frantically in her state of panic. Sarah had followed her.

"What's going on?" Sarah kept asking, growing nervous at the way the girl was acting. "Where's John? Isn't he getting the—"

Harley ran up to her and clamped a hand over her mouth. She put a finger to her lips as she glared at her intensely. _Shut up and stay shut up if you want to live!_

Too late.

The sound of footsteps thundering up the stairs broke the heavy silence, followed by someone roughly jiggling the doorknobs on each door, trying to get in. Then the door thudded, a sound like thunder, as the person on the other side threw their whole weight against it, attempting to break it down.

"Oh, my God!" Sarah exclaimed, growing as anxious as Harley now as she stared at the door, wide-eyed. Harley's eyes darted around once more. She spotted her phone on the coffee table, and she immediately grabbed for it. Then she ran up to the now stricken Sarah, dialed 999 into the phone, and she thrust the phone into her hands.

"W-what?" Sarah stammered numbly, looking down at it. "What do you want me to—?"

Resisting the urge to pull her hair out in hysterical frustration, Harley hit the call button and put it to Sarah's ear. Then she put her own hand to her ear, making the motion to talk on the phone.

Sarah finally seemed to get it, and when the other line picked up, she started to speak shakily, "Y-yes. Someone's trying to break in…"

But Harley stopped listening as she continued to look around the flat, the door still pounding from the other side. As the door grew weaker with every slam, every hinge that was beginning to come undone, Harley realized with despair that there wasn't going to be any way out of this. If they were to try to escape through a window, the intruders would most likely catch them. Besides, these killers were climbers, and were known to enter through buildings by other means. They probably had this place surrounded.

In conclusion: She and Sarah were going to be taken.

But that didn't mean she couldn't do anything about it.

She suddenly turned to the desk, an idea popping into her head— a desperate idea, but an idea nonetheless. Sherlock said that somewhere in the ciphers they had found would be the location of the smugglers' hideout. That would also most likely be the place they were going to be taken to.

And if Sherlock was deciphering the message at this moment, he'd be able to uncover that place. But he would still need something to help guide him to that location, like an atlas, or a map.

The thought striking a chord, she hurried over to the bookshelf, her eyes madly scanning its contents. The pounding on the door that was getting louder and louder compelled her to move faster. She only had moments— seconds— until that door would give.

 _Come on, Harley! You've only looked at this shelf a hundred times already! You know where it is! Find it!_

And find it, she did. She finally found what she was looking for, and reached up to yank it out from its hiding spot between two volumes: a folding map of all the streets of London. Slamming it down on the desk, she flipped open her notebook next to it and scrawled something onto the first page.

 _THUD!_

She cringed at the booming noise the door kept making, along with the cracking of wood breaking and the creaking of hinges, but she finished up her message. Any second now.

In a flourish, she ripped the page out and tucked it into the folds of the map…

….just as the door crashed open, followed by Sarah's scream of terror.

Harley whirled around, and was frozen on the spot, her blood pounding in her ears as time seemed to slow to a halt. She looked up at the familiar face of a man now standing before her— a familiar, _burned_ face that looked right back at her, grinning with vengeful excitement.

* * *

Sherlock was grinning with gleeful triumph as he ran his way back to 221B. He had finally found it— translated the code— and he didn't even need to go all the way back to the museum. After a quick run-in with a couple of German tourists, he had realized that the book they were looking for— a book everyone would own, everyone who was new to London— was the _London A-Z_ book. After taking the copy that the German couple had— and ignoring the impolite words they uttered to him— he had quickly cracked the code.

Those symbols at the bank, the library, and the museum— they were translated to, _DEAD MAN_ , proving to him that Van Coon, Lukis, and Soo Lin had been threatened. And after quickly going through the other symbols, he had finally translated the symbols Harley had taken pictures of down at the tracks.

 _NINE MILL FOR JADE PIN DRAGON DEN BLACK TRAMWAY_

That was the code— their hideout. He had finally solved it.

He rushed through the front door, eager to share what he had uncovered with the ex-army doctor and his niece. They were going to be thrilled when they hear the news.

In hindsight, he should've known something was wrong the second he went through the front door, which was left unlocked and open ajar.

"John! Harley! I've got it!" he shouted as he ran up the stairs and into the kitchen. In his excitement, he barely processed the fluorescent lighting suspended over the table swaying gently back and forth, and the three empty trays with just as empty plates and a full glass of punch on the table. He hurried into the living room, holding up the book. "The cipher, the book! It's the _London A-Z_ that they're use..."

He trailed off before he could even finish the last word, freezing in place and staring into the living room, his excitement instantly replaced with shock.

Some of the stacked crates had been knocked over, papers and books scattered everywhere on the floor, showing signs of a struggle that had occurred just recently. But what caught his attention the most was what was painted in big yellow wording on the windows. On the left window was the almost eight with the horizontal line above it. On the right window was the single line across the glass.

 _DEAD MAN_

There was no sign of John or Sarah in the flat anymore, and after straining his ears for a moment, listening for anything that would prove him wrong, there was no sign of Harley either.

Sherlock stared wide-eyed at the symbols before he turned and darted up the stairs. With every step, he began to feel dread creeping into his bones. He swung open the door into John's room, finding it void of life. Then he did the same to Harley's room, coming up with the same results. They were really gone. The Black Lotus had taken them away.

"No," he whispered.

He sprinted back down into the sitting room and paced the floor, his usually sharp brain racing out of control as he felt a weight pressuring itself on his chest at the thought of his flatmate and the girl being handled by smuggling assassins— panic, _fear_. Then, with a growl, he forcefully willed himself to get it together. It wasn't going to help John or Harley if he lost control. He needed to stay focused, to find them. He glanced down at the ciphered photo in his hand. He had the name of their rendezvous now. No doubt that was where they were headed. But how was he going to find—

He stopped pacing completely, having caught something out of the corner of his eye. He turned toward the desk by the windows and walked up to it with a frown. Pushed away from the rest of the clutter on the table was Harley's notebook, which she never went anywhere without. But that wasn't what got his attention.

It was the map of London tucked underneath it, the corner just barely showing.

He took the map out from under the notebook, and as he started to unfold it, a single, roughly ripped note slipped out, landing into his awaiting palm. He spread it out. On the paper was a group of dashes and dots scribbled together— obviously written in a hurry and with trembling hands. But it was no doubt Harley's handwriting as he skimmed it over:

 _ **· · · — — — · · ·**_

 _SOS,_ Sherlock's mind translated instantly. The standard emergency signal for help in Morse code.

He blinked and stared at the note, almost in disbelief. Harley, the silent, reserved girl— who had tried to save his life earlier that night by setting an assassin on fire— had known that he would find the hideout in the cipher, and had managed to leave a map for him to take him there right before they grabbed her. _She knew._ And then she had called out to him in her own way. A girl, who'd only known him for almost a week, who was more than willing to help out even though she was only staying on holiday…had already put her trust in him to save them even when in imminent danger.

He slowly lifted his head up, the hand that was holding the note beginning to clench tightly, causing the paper to crumble up. His deductive, anxious demeanor had transformed into cold determination as he glared out the vandalized window intensely; the thought of John and Harley in the hands of those psychopaths making his blood boil.

Harley was counting on him.

And he had a sudden, unfathomable urge to not let her down.

Sherlock prepared to go to war.

"Tramway," he muttered to himself as he quickly unfolded the map of London, spreading it out on the table. He ran his finger along the paper, eyes rapidly scanning the yellow lines representing roads, street names, and numbers. Then he stabbed his finger down, having finally found what he was looking for in the middle of the map. "There!" he said with triumph.

He had found Black Tramway. He knew where they were now.

And so Sherlock Holmes turned and stormed out of the flat, out into the night, his mission now dead set in mind, hoping that he would make it in time before the unthinkable happened.

He also hoped, for the smugglers' sake, that he wouldn't need to have the morgue prepped for a few autopsies once he was through with them.

* * *

 **A/N-** **I think we've all been in Harley's shoes at the beginning of the chapter at some point in our childhood; when we know we've done something we're not supposed to do and think we're getting punished for it. It's like you die a thousand deaths before you even get in trouble. XD**

 **I don't know how many of you who follow me on here also know me from Deviantart, but if you do and have ever read my Digimon Tamers story, then you know that I am ridiculously notorious for leaving chapters on cliffhangers. I mean, I'm not "Rick Riordan" bad, but still, it can be grating. Oh, I'm sorry. Did you think you were safe here from me? NEVER! MUWAHAHAHA!**

 **Thank you for reading, my fellow Sherlockians! And stay tuned...*switches to Kevin Hart voice* CAUSE IT'S ABOUT TA GO DOWN!**


	15. The Wrath of the Black Lotus

**A/N- Surprise, fools! I bet you thought you'd seen the last of me.**

 **I finally got myself settled in Virginia, and now we're just using the remainder of the week to rest up and chill from all the traveling before the real work starts. So, of course, I used the time I had to write up, proofread, and edit this chapter. Amazing how limited time can motivate you to do things, right? Besides, I couldn't just leave you readers hanging like that in the previous chapter. I'm not a TOTAL jerk. ;)**

 **Anyway, time to fight off some smugglers! Vamanos!**

 **Disclaimer: I only own my OC, Harley, who still won't post bail for me if I get caught.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

This was bad. This was most definitely not good.

Harley sat in an uncomfortable wooden chair, her feet bound tightly by rough rope against the front legs and her hands tied just as tightly together in front of her. Behind her, a fire was burning in a dustbin— as well as two more dustbins from around her— but other than that, it was nearly pitch black all around her. She couldn't tell where she was, but she could hear the faint sound of a train engine chugging by somewhere off the distance from time to time, so she figured they must be in an abandoned tunnel somewhere near the tracks. Sarah was tied to a chair to her left, a gag in her mouth as she shook with fright, tears running down her face. John sat to her right. He was still out of it from the blow to the head earlier, blood running down from his right temple, as he slowly began to stir.

Harley's eyes constantly moved from him in concern, then to the three people standing across the way in fear. Two Chinese men stood at attention; one of them was the acrobat— the one who killed Van Coon, Lukis, and Soo Lin; Soo Lin's brother, _Zhi Zhu_ — and the other was the one she and Sherlock had encountered at the circus, whose eyes never left her with ruthless anticipation. Harley eyed him back, willing herself with all her might not to show how utterly terrified she felt, while also trying to hide the pain in the back of her head as well as her left arm. When the man had taken her out of the flat, he was far from gentle; grabbing her by the hair when she tried to run away from him and seizing her arm in a vice-like grip as he slung her over his shoulder like she was nothing, yanking her hair hard to stop her from kicking and punching as he carried her away. She was sure he had pulled a few locks out. And she certainly didn't miss the horrible smile he had when he did it; the satisfaction in hearing her choked gasp in pain. He _wanted_ to hurt her. And she had a sick feeling that that was just the tip of the iceberg of what he was planning next.

And then there was the Chinese woman standing in between the two men, with short, dark hair and wearing large sunglasses over her eyes as she watched them— the ringleader from the circus, without all of the makeup and the costume, instead wearing all black. She was also the woman who was spying on them the night before when they crossed Hungerford Bridge, Harley realized. She was their leader.

Right next to them was a familiarly shaped large object covered by a sheet. Judging by the large cable draping over it, weighed down by a sandbag and the metal ball, it had to be…Harley shook her head. She didn't even want to think about that at the moment.

Her eyes continued to flicker between their three kidnappers and her uncle, whose head lolled to the side, groaning in pain as he started to regain consciousness.

 _Please wake up and be okay,_ Harley silently commanded. _And Sherlock, please…find us. And hurry._

John finally blinked himself awake, dazed but otherwise okay. He winced from the pounding in his head.

The Chinese woman took this as an opportunity to finally speak, her voice calm and deliberate— very casual-like, "A book is like a magic garden carried in your pocket." As she started to walk towards them, John looked around, now fully aware of the situation that they were in. He looked over at Sarah, who looked back with teary eyes, her lips quavering underneath her gag. Then he looked at Harley, who was still trying to keep her face impassive, despite her rapidly growing anxiety and tense posture. His eyes widened in horror before he turned back to the woman who was approaching him. When she stopped in front of him, she raised her sunglasses to the top of her head, looking down at him with a transparent smirk. "Chinese proverb, Mr. Holmes."

At this, Harley furrowed her eyebrows slightly as she stared at the woman. _Wait, did she just call my uncle….Is she an idiot?_

John stared at her as well, startled. "I'm…I'm not Sherlock Holmes," he said in confusion.

The woman's smirk grew into a humorless smile. "Forgive me if I do not take your word for it."

 _Sorry, but idiocy is an unforgivable act,_ Harley thought, glaring at the woman as she reached forward and forcefully pulled John's wallet out of his jacket. The movement caused John to breathe heavily in pain. If Harley wasn't currently restrained, she'd throw herself at the woman and beat her senseless for hurting her uncle.

The woman took one of the cards out of his wallet. "Debit card, name of S. Holmes," she read aloud.

Harley flashed back to the day John borrowed that card in the living room. _"Take my card,"_ said Sherlock's voice.

 _Oh, no._

"Yes, that's not actually mine. He lent that to me," John tried to explain, his voice still groggy from the blow.

"And a check for five thousand pounds, in the name of Mr. Sherlock Holmes," the woman said as she looked through the contents of his wallet, ignoring John.

Harley winced, remembering that jerk-wad Sebastian from the bank giving that check to John to keep. _Ohhh, no._

"Yeah, he gave me that to look after," John said, taking a deep breath and letting it out, knowing that this was starting to look bad.

The woman continued to ignore his protests as she pulled out something else. "Tickets from the theatre collected by you, name of Holmes."

Harley closed her eyes in dismay, recalling Sherlock booking their tickets under his name earlier that night. _Ohhh, God._

"Yes, okay…I realize what this looks like, but I'm not him."

"We heard it from your own mouth," the woman told him, and John frowned in confusion while Harley raised an eyebrow. _What is she talking about?_

"What?" John asked, blinking up at her.

The woman looked upwards with mock thoughtfulness. "'I am Sherlock Holmes, and I always work alone…'"

 _"…because no one else can compete with my_ massive intellect _!"_ John's past voice yelled through Harley's head as she remembered when they were at Soo Lin's flat. She stared ahead in disbelief. _We are so screwed._

John closed his eyes and shook his head with a little smile. "Did I really say that?" he said softly. His face tightened for a moment, trying to recompose himself, before looking back up at the woman. "I suppose there's no use in me trying to persuade you I was doing an impression…" he said, but before he could finish his sentence, the woman raised a pistol and aimed it at his head, and he cringed away from it instinctively, blowing out a panicked breath. Harley's stomach turned to lead as her eyes trained on the gun.

The woman grinned. "I am Shan," she introduced herself.

"You're…you're Shan," John said in disbelief.

"Three times we tried to kill you and your companions, Mr. Holmes," Shan glanced over at Harley for a split second, then back at John. "What does it tell you when an assassin cannot shoot straight?"

She lifted her other hand only to cock the pistol and put her finger on the trigger. John instantly tried to scoot away from her, his breathing growing rapid as he whispered desperately, "Don't, don't." Meanwhile, Harley struggled against her bonds as she looked between her uncle and Shan with anguish, her mind screaming, _NO! STOP!_ All while Shan's finger on the trigger tightened until she pulled it all the way.

 _Click._

Harley's eyes darted to the gun when it didn't fire in confusion. She looked up at Shan's face, which smiled smugly down at John. "It tells you that they're not really trying," she said. Then she reached back only to reveal an actual clip, sliding it into the pistol and cocking it a second time. "Not blank bullets now."

John struggled in his chair once more. Harley swallowed, her eyes never leaving the gun, knowing how high the stakes were now.

"If we wanted to kill you, Mr. Holmes, we would've done it by now. We just wanted to make you inquisitive," said the general. Then she fixed John with an intense gaze. "Do you have it?"

"Do I have what?"

"The treasure."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

After a moment's pause, Shan turned away, raising her voice an octave. "I would prefer to make certain." She looked at one of the men, and he pulled the cover off the large object, revealing it to be what Harley dreaded: the deadly crossbow from the circus, and an arrow was already loaded into it, ready to fire. John let out a heavy breath as he stared at it in comprehending horror.

"Everything in the West has its price," Shan sneered at him. "And the price for _their_ lives…" her eyes lingered from Sarah to Harley, "…information." She finished with a smile.

Sarah and Harley looked at each other. Sarah's eyes widened even more as the tears flowed, her lips trembling with terror. Then the two men walked over and picked up her chair, carrying her towards the crossbow. Sarah began to squirm and whimper while John kept breathing, "I'm sorry," over and over as he watched in despair. They set her down in front of the crossbow, making her face the arrow tip directly.

Harley's face instantly went from shock to anger as she glared at Shan, her gray eyes blazing. She may have had her mixed feelings toward Sarah, but she did not deserve this.

The general turned back to John. "Where is the hairpin?"

A flicker of confusion crossed Harley's features, before quickly returning to glowering at the woman. _Hair…pin?_

"What?" John asked, struggling against his own bonds, despite the pistol still pointed at him.

Shan's voice became hard and impatient, "The Empress Pin valued at nine million sterling. We already had a buyer in the West, and then one of our people was greedy. He took it, and you, Mr. Holmes, have been searching!"

"Please," John begged, "Please, listen to me. I'm not…I'm not Sherlock Holmes. You have to believe me; I haven't found whatever it is you're looking for."

"I need a volunteer from the audience!" Shan declared loudly, her voice echoing off the walls. She turned to a still struggling and panic-stricken Sarah.

"No, please. Please!" John shouted desperately, but it fell on deaf ears.

"Ah, thank you, lady. Yes, you'll do very nicely," Shan said with delight as Sarah let out a muffled cry.

Then Shan turned to face Harley and smiled. Forgetting about John and Sarah for the moment, the woman walked up to the girl, who continued to glare up at her. "Don't worry, little girl," she said in a patronizing tone, "You won't have to participate in this act, but we do have something…special in mind for you." She looked over at John's disconcerted expression. "You see, she burned one of my men. And such an act cannot go unpunished for us."

John looked at his niece, his eyes so wide, they nearly popped out of their sockets. "Harley…?"

Harley sent him a quick, mournful look, _I'm sorry, Uncle_ , before fixing her glare right back on Shan, whose smug smile never left her. "You have quite the precocious little companion here, Mr. Holmes. My men told me she didn't even scream when they took her, and they are very…efficient." She glimpsed back at the man with the blistered face, whose smile was nothing short of wicked.

"Leave her alone!" John yelled, but of course he was ignored.

Shan leaned down until she was face-to-face with the girl. Harley didn't even blink as she kept her eyes on her, did nothing to show any fear whatsoever. "But we will soon fix that. She needs to know when to show the proper respect to—"

Shan suddenly felt something warm and moist hit her left cheek, right under her eye, making her step back in surprise and disgust. It took her a moment to realize it, but Harley had spit in her face with near perfect projection.

John's mouth fell open in shock as Harley continued to scowl at the general, letting out a sharp huff of air through her nose in defiance. Shan breathed heavily in anger as she slowly wiped the saliva from her face. Then, with an enraged snarl, she raised her arm.

 _SMACK!_

Shan struck the girl hard across the face. Harley was pretty much expecting it to happen, but what she didn't expect was what happened next. When Shan's hand connected with her cheek, her head snapped sideways, and she suddenly felt an explosion of blinding, stunning pain in her head. She gasped.

"Harley!" she faintly heard John's voice cry out, but it sounded distant. Everything did. It was like she wasn't even in the tunnel anymore. Suddenly, it felt like she couldn't even breathe, could hardly even _think_. A tightness took over her chest; not only feeling pain, but also extreme, annihilating panic engulfing her, coursing through her veins for some reason. Her now rigid body hunched over as she sucked in deep lungfuls of air, her breath intake growing rapid and uneven; she was hyperventilating. Sweat beaded from her forehead as she grew more lightheaded.

 _What's happening to me?_ her mind barely managed to ask itself .

From somewhere far off in her panicked state— over her sharp breaths and pounding heart— she could still process John calling out her name, as well as Shan's contemptuous voice, "Stupid, foolish girl!"

She didn't know when— it felt like an eternity— but soon she felt herself finally descending from the sudden high level of anxiety, becoming aware of her surroundings again. She took deep breaths as she lifted her head back up and found herself back in the tunnel with her uncle, Sarah, and the smugglers. She blinked rapidly, her vision clearing back up.

 _What the hell just happened?_

Unfortunately, fate didn't give her time to ponder about that at the time. Shan had walked away from her meanwhile, taking out a dagger and doing exactly the same action that she had done at the circus: she stabbed into the sandbag, splitting it open, and sand began to gradually pour out. Harley watched as the bag started to slowly rise and the metal ball lower toward the bowl. Her body still trembled from head to toe, her cheek feeling like it was on fire.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Shan announced to a nonexistent audience, "From the distant, moonlit shores of NW1, we present for your pleasure, Sherlock Holmes' pretty companion in a death-defying act."

"Please!" John yelled as Shan took something small out of her pocket and placed it on Sarah's thigh while she thrashed under her bonds. It was a black origami lotus.

"You've seen the act before. How dull for you. You know how it ends," Shan told Sarah with mock sadness. Then she turned back to Harley. "But not so dull for you, though. Right, little girl?" she sneered. "You didn't stick around to see the ending for yourself. You were too busy sniffing your nose in where it doesn't belong." Then she smirked. "But now you shall see, up front and center, with her."

Harley sent the woman her most deathly glare that she could muster, despite that her eyes were stinging with tears from her throbbing face, her insides steaming with both anger and fear.

"I'm not Sherlock Holmes!" John shouted desperately in a last attempt to convince her.

"I don't believe you," Shan spat at him.

"You should, you know."

Harley's eyes widened upon hearing that familiar, deep voice filter through the tunnel. She looked past Shan, and she could see the tall silhouette of the consulting detective— Belstaff coat and all— standing at the far end of the tunnel. _He found us,_ she thought, feeling her lips slowly curl up as immense relief washed over her.

But they weren't out of the fire just yet.

Shan instantly spun around when she heard Sherlock's voice continue, "Sherlock Holmes is nothing at all like him." The general raised the pistol, cocking it, and aimed it at him. But he had quickly dived into the shadows. Then one of the thugs— the one with the burned face— started to hurry towards the end of the tunnel, intent on hunting him down.

"How would you describe me, John?" Sherlock asked, his voice sounding like it was coming from everywhere at once. "Resourceful? Dynamic? Enigmatic?" he clicked the "c" on the last word.

 _Yep, yep, and yep,_ Harley thought, her smile growing.

"Late?" John offered cynically, his breathing growing calmer now.

"That's a semi-automatic," Sherlock was speaking to Shan now. "If you fire it, the bullet will travel at over a thousand meters per second."

Shan aimed her pistol towards the shadows, all while the henchman got further away from her. "Well?" she asked challengingly.

"Well…" Sherlock repeated, and he suddenly reappeared with a metal pole, swinging it back only to slam it right into the man's stomach. The man let out a pained grunt and sank to the ground before Sherlock immediately returned to the shadows. Harley winced, but was amazed by the action as Sherlock continued talking to a now concerned-looking Shan, "…the radius curvature of these walls is nearly four meters. If you miss, the bullet will ricochet. Could hit anyone….Might even bounce off the tunnel and hit _you_."

There came the fast pattering of footsteps. Then suddenly, Sherlock emerged from the shadows. He kicked the burning dustbin over nearest to him, shrouding himself as well as the surrounding area into darkness. Shan's face contorted with worry, knowing she had an even slimmer chance of finding her target, and she ran off. John and Harley squinted, trying to find Sherlock. He came back out a moment later, sneaking behind Sarah and starting to untie her bonds.

But then a figure approached him from behind, carrying a long, red scarf. _Zhi Zhu._

Harley sucked in a breath. _Behind you!_

But Zhi Zhu had already looped the scarf around Sherlock's neck and yanked hard. Crying out once, Sherlock stood as he struggled against the scarf. Meanwhile, Sarah looked back at them, then stared directly at the arrow before her with dread until her eyes moved up to the weight that was now halfway down to the bowl. Behind her, Sherlock managed to shake off Zhi Zhu for a moment and attempted to undo Sarah's ropes again, but the killer came right back and wrapped the scarf around his neck a few more times. Sherlock grunted, gasping for air as he continued to struggle.

 _He's not going to get her free in time,_ Harley realized when she saw how close the weight was getting to the bowl now. She had to do something. Her mind racing fast, she gauged how far she was to the crossbow— only a few feet. Then, looking down and using her momentum, she tried to scoot her chair while tied to it. To her satisfaction, she could move, but only a couple of inches each time she pushed herself. If she was quick enough, she could just make it in time.

She reached out to John with her bound hands, getting his attention. She pointed at the crossbow, then made a pushing motion with her hands, silently but frantically saying, _We have to move it out of way._ Thank the heavens, John seemed to understand what she was trying to tell him by nodding curtly and starting to shift in his seat.

As she continued to scoot her way over, John decided to try a different approach by attempting to stand up, but it was almost impossible when his ankles were tied to the legs of the chair. He did manage to make it a couple of paces, dragging his chair with him— before he stumbled and fell over.

Breathing out heavily through her mouth, Harley glared at the crossbow with intense focus as she pressed on, pushing herself closer to it, glancing up only once to see the metal ball sinking lower and lower. She barely registered John thrashing on the ground, trying to get closer as well; or Sherlock barely struggling to get out of the killer's strangling grasp; or Sarah merely sitting there frozen with fear, staring up at the weight. She was now almost within arm's reach of the contraption, and surprisingly, John was too. He had managed to get one of his feet free from the ropes. The weight was only seconds from reaching the bowl now. It was now or never.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed herself one last time, and with all her might she thrust her hands out and shoved at the crossbow— while at the same time, John kicked his free leg up, connecting with the crossbow as well. With both their strength combined, the bow shifted position, twisting its aim to the left.

Then it made the crackling sound as the weight finally landed into the bowl, sending the arrow flying. It soared through air, missing Sarah, and instead embedded itself deep into the stomach of Soo Lin's brother, producing a sickening sound when it stabbed into his flesh. The man grunted as he straightened, his face full of shock as he stared ahead. Then he slowly fell to the floor with a thud. He didn't move again.

For a long moment, everything was still and silent to Harley as she stared numbly at Zhi Zhu's now lifeless body across from her. Then footsteps from a distance brought her attention back, and she looked up to see the shadowy figure of General Shan running out of the tunnel, escaping.

 _No,_ Harley thought with dismay when the general disappeared from view, never to be seen again.

Sherlock unwrapped the red scarf from his neck and stood, catching his breath again. He turned to the exit as well, as if contemplating chasing after Shan. But then Sarah's muffled sobs made him turn back, and he dropped to his knees to finish untying her while whispering comforting words to her. Sarah continued to cry uncontrollably when he removed the gag from her mouth. On the ground, John grunted as he tried to free himself even more from his chair.

Leaning forward onto the crossbow for support, Harley lowered her head between her arms, closing her eyes and breathing heavily. Her nerves were completely shot from all that she had experienced; making her feel both exhausted and wound up at the same time.

"Don't worry," she processed John saying breathlessly to a still weeping Sarah. "Next date won't be like this."

Harley had just enough sense to think drily, _Yeah, if there's ever gonna BE a next date._

She didn't know how long she sat there, but she soon felt hands rest on her shoulders. She jumped, straightening back up quickly in alarm.

"It's okay, it's okay!" came a hushed but strangely sincere voice, and she looked up only to see Sherlock. He knelt down in front of her, his hands running down her arms in a soothing gesture as he did so, and he started to undo the ropes around her wrists. "It's alright, it's just me. It's over, you're safe now," he assured her softly.

Harley forced herself to relax, trying to steady her breathing and slow down her heart rate as he continued to untie her, but it was difficult. She made herself sit still as Sherlock freed her hands and moved down to undo the other bonds keeping her to the chair. She rubbed her wrists gingerly, which had rope burns on them from struggling against the rope earlier.

When Sherlock was finished untying her, he raised his head back up, his bluish-green eyes meeting her solemn, gray ones. Then his eyes moved to her now bruised cheek, and he frowned. It may have just been the fatigue impairing her vision, but she thought she saw a flash of anger pass briefly over his eyes. He reached a hand out towards her face, but when she lightly flinched away, he paused and reconsidered his actions. Instead, he rubbed his hand up and down her arm once more. "It's okay," he told her again with a small but reassuring smile before he stood up and went over to John. He lifted his chair up off the ground, righting him.

"You took your bloody time," John grumbled as he continued to untangle himself, the task easier now that he was upright.

"Well…" Sherlock deadpanned, "…it's not like I knew where you guys were." Then he snuck a look over at Harley and, with a discreet grin, he winked at her.

Harley blinked, staring at him blankly for a moment. Then she felt her lips curl up into a broken, but genuine smile back. Now that she was calming down more and more, she was just relieved and glad that, despite everything and what they've just been through that night, they all came out on top. They were all okay. Hurt? A bit. Scarred for life? Most likely. But definitely okay for now.

* * *

 **A/N- Phew! Well, that was a bit rough. Other than chapter thirteen, this was a chapter I was most anticipating to write out since starting this story. So I'm glad that I was able to write it up with the time that I was given. Hopefully, I'll have some more time to myself for the remainder of my trip to keep on writing and updating, but I'm not sure. I'm planning on going to Washington D.C. during my time on the East Coast; that should be fun.**

 **Thank you to all who have read, followed, favorited, and left their feedback for this story! You're probably sick of hearing me say that by now, but really, I can't say it enough. You guys are fantastic. I really appreciate it and it keeps me going.**

 **Until then, stay strong, my friends! :D**


	16. The Aftermath

**A/N- Hello, my good sirs and madams!**

 **My humblest apologies. I meant for this chapter to wrap up the Blind Banker episode, but you know how it is. Once you start writing and writing, coming up with new things to add and put down, you end up with a lot more and a lot different than what you had originally planned. If I tried to finish it all in one chapter, it'd be WAY too long. Don't worry, though. Next chapter will most likely have us finally finished with this episode (no sure-fire guarantees, though).**

 **Also might I add? We've now hit over a hundred followers, over eighty favorites, and over fifty reviews! *slams hand on desk* WHAT! Holy crap on a stick with a side of pudding, that's awesome! Many thanks to everyone who's reading and following along on this crazy train so far!**

 **Disclaimer: I only own my OC.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

Dimmock had arrived with a squad of police officers as well as a couple of ambulances shortly after the four of them exited the tunnel, the loud sirens of the vehicles blaring and their blue and red lights flashing. The Detective Inspector and the officers got out and raced past them into the tramway to apprehend the remaining smugglers, while EMT's rushed out of an ambulance toward them.

The next thing Harley knew, she was sitting in the back of an open ambulance next to her uncle— Sarah sitting on John's other side— getting checked out by the paramedics. They had given her an ice pack for her bruised face. The heat from the side of her face where Shan had hit her evaporated against the coldness of the ice pack, making her wince a little. But other than that, she was physically okay. Then one of the medics draped a hideously orange blanket over her shoulders from behind. She didn't complain, though; she was freezing. The smugglers didn't give her time to get her coat before they took her out of the flat. _Rude._ She used her free hand to clutch the blanket tighter around her as she watched an EMT look over her uncle, checking his head for a concussion and patching up the cut on his head. Nothing seemed to be wrong with Sarah as she sat close to John with her own blanket. She was just in shock. Harley didn't blame her, though. She was nearly impaled by an arrow, after all. That was enough to traumatize anyone senseless.

Sherlock stood nearby, talking to Dimmock and explaining everything to him. Harley listened with interest about how he had deciphered the code written by the railway tracks from the _London A-Z_ book and managed to figure out the Black Lotus' motives. She smiled faintly. He truly was brilliant.

Then her smile faded when she looked away and saw police officers emerge from the tramway with one of the thugs in handcuffs— the one who Harley burned at the circus, and who would've done whatever unspeakable thing to her for revenge if Sherlock hadn't arrived in time. She quickly averted her gaze, keeping her head down as they shoved the criminal into the back of a patrol car. Hopefully, they'll keep him behind bars for as long as she lived. She didn't need that kind of pressure in her life.

And that was probably the biggest euphemism in the history of ever.

Besides, that wasn't the only thing she was concerned about.

There was General Shan. She was still out there somewhere. Harley couldn't help but shudder at everything that woman said, as well as what she had done.

And then there was that…thing that happened when Shan struck her. Harley just couldn't wrap her mind around it. _What was that all about?_ From what she could understand, it felt like she had some kind of anxiety attack. But that couldn't be right. She'd never had one before— at least, not one that strong before. And why would something like Shan hitting her trigger it somehow? She shuddered harder. That just felt so horrible— without a doubt the worst thing she'd ever experienced in her life. Sitting there, feeling nothing but a cold, painful, and overwhelming dread take over, and knowing there was nothing you could do about it, especially when you were tied up. She hoped that she would never have to feel that way ever again. She exhaled shakily.

Once the paramedics had finished patching him up, John looked down at his niece, then at Sarah, then over at Sherlock. It looked like his head had finally cleared up. "I'll be right back," he said, to both of them. "I'm just going to talk to Sherlock for a second." He stood and went over to Sherlock, who had finished talking with Dimmock. He led Sherlock away a couple of paces and started talking to him a quiet voice, so Harley couldn't hear their conversation. But from the way John kept glancing over her way, she had an idea what it was about. She looked downwards gravely.

"H- Hey."

That tentative voice tugged her gaze back upward. Slightly puzzled, she looked over at Sarah. The woman managed a smile at the girl and scooted closer a little. "I…I just wanted to say…thank you," she said, her voice still trembling a little and her eyes still shiny from crying. "You and John and Sherlock— I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you three. You saved me."

Harley blinked slowly, removing the ice pack from her face as she stared at her for a moment. Then she nodded once as if to say, _you're welcome_.

"Y- You know, for a mute…you're pretty bold."

Harley looked up into the cloudy night sky, releasing a long breath that fogged up from the cold air. _No, not bold. Just crazy and scared enough._

A few moments later, John reappeared. He stood in front of Harley, his hands around her upper arms in a comforting gesture as he looked down at her. "Harley," he said gently, "I'm going to take Sarah home, real quick. Sherlock is going to take you back to the flat until then, alright?"

When Harley only tilted her head slightly in response, he assured her, "I promise, I'll be right back, very soon. And when I do, we'll talk, okay?"

Harley's breath caught in her throat at that statement. _Talk? Talk about what?_ That could've meant anything. He knew that she had put herself in danger at the circus now, she got herself kidnapped by a smuggling ring, and he witnessed her have that panic attack. She noticed that he didn't look angry in the slightest, though; just very weary, and maybe a bit sad. She didn't like it when he was sad, but she supposed it was far better than angry. Swallowing down her now dry throat, she nodded falteringly.

John smiled ruefully. "That's my girl." He leaned in to kiss the top of her head. Her eyes closed momentarily at the feel of his lips before reopening them to see him pull away. Then he moved to help Sarah off of the ambulance. The woman kept her blanket wrapped around her as she stood. But then she did the unexpected and threw her arms around Harley into a tight hug. Harley drew in a sharp breath, her body stiffening like a statue, feeling uncomfortable under the woman's sudden embrace. John chuckled humorously as Harley's wide eyes repeatedly darted from him to his date pleadingly. _Get her off me. Now._

"Maybe I'll see you around," Sarah said with a smile after finally releasing her.

Harley kind of doubted that, but she nodded anyway to appease the woman. Sarah gave her one final, polite smile before she and John started to walk off.

Once they were a few yards away, a voice spoke up from right next to Harley, "What do you think?"

Having grown used that voice by now, instead of flinching anymore, she just blinked once in surprise and looked over at the consulting detective, who now stood beside her as he watched the couple walk off. "Is your 'decision still pending' regarding John's date?"

 _Uhh..._ Harley looked down at her curled hands in her lap, her writing fingers twitching faintly, feeling a pang of emptiness inside her because she couldn't answer him properly.

"Ah, yes. Hold on." Sherlock reached inside his coat, and to her disbelief, he pulled out a notepad and a pen and offered it to her. Looking up at him, then down at the notepad, she took it from him. Glancing up at the retreating couple, a small frown slowly forming when her uncle wrapped an arm around the woman's shoulders, she wrote:

 _She's nice and all, but she's not exactly 'future aunt' material. I give their relationship about three weeks. A month tops._

Sherlock tisked. "Well, that's a shame," he said, feigning disappointment.

 _Not really,_ she added underneath.

Dropping the act, he smirked at her. "No, not really," he agreed with a shake of his head.

She started to smirk back, but stopped when something caught her attention ahead. A few EMT's came out of the tramway, rolling a stretcher that had the body of Zhi Zhu lying on it, a white sheet covering him up from head to toe. She watched as they took the body away and loaded it into another ambulance nearby. She sighed.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked her with a slight frown. She looked back up at him with a puzzled expression before he explained, "Technically, you assisted your uncle in killing a man tonight."

She blinked. _Wow. He really doesn't beat around the bush, does he?_

He was right, though, in a sense. She thought back to the very moment Zhi Zhu died, when she saw the light fade from his very eyes before his body fell limp to the ground, the arrow sticking out of his chest. She should feel terrible about that, knowing she had a part in it. But then she remembered what that man had done; killed all of those people— his own sister being one of them— and he tried to kill Sherlock and her uncle as well. Not to mention, he'd most likely just keep on killing other people if he wasn't stopped. And suddenly, she didn't feel so bad about it anymore. It probably wasn't right, but, that was just how she felt.

She took the notepad and wrote out:

 _It wasn't like I was aiming for him; he shouldn't have been in the line of fire. Besides, he wasn't a very nice man anyway._

Sherlock's eyes swept over the message twice, as if rereading it over, before he turned his head away slightly and broke out into deep, rumbling laughter— the hardest Harley's ever seen him laugh. Harley merely stared at him in confusion, wondering what was so funny, until he eventually calmed down and turned back to her, a grin still spread across his face. "You are definitely your uncle's niece. He told me the same thing once, not too long ago."

She cocked an eyebrow, speculating what situation could have her uncle saying that. Though, that did indeed sound like him the more she thought about it.

"So if that's not what's bothering you, then what is?" Sherlock asked her, his face turning back to his searching expression as he looked at her. "What are you thinking about?"

She lowered her gaze for a long moment, contemplating what she was going to reply with. There were a lot of things that she was thinking about, actually— some she wasn't really ready to express yet, not even to her uncle. There was one thing, though, that she felt she had to get across. She raised her head back up with a rather remorseful air before she wrote:

 _I'm sorry that Shan got away._

Sherlock's brows wrinkled before looking up at her. "That's it?" he asked, somewhat incredulously. "Don't be ridiculous. There was nothing you could've done to stop her in your position back there. _I_ was hardly in a position to do anything myself. Besides, she has a vast network. A person in a position of power like hers, I highly doubt we'll ever see her again."

Harley shrugged lightly. She supposed he was right. _All_ of them were pretty occupied while they were in that tunnel. But she still couldn't help but feel regretful that the general had escaped— that perhaps if Shan was apprehended, they'd be able to dismantle the Black Lotus entirely.

However, Harley was more than okay with not seeing her again as well.

"You know," Sherlock said, getting her attention again, "you are one strange child."

She frowned at his statement, but when she saw his slightly humorous expression and tone he had used, she got the hint that he wasn't saying it to insult her.

With a half-smile, she flipped open to a new page and swiftly wrote down a message, recalling a rather similar but reversed conversation with him a day prior, and she showed it to him:

 _My dear, you don't know the half of it._

He laughed in amusement once more after reading, only more softly this time, and Harley's half-smile slowly tugged into a full one as a brief, but certain understanding conveyed between the two. Yes, there were many unexplainable things about her that marked her as strange among the norm. But he was strange too— maybe even more so. And that was okay.

A moment later, after forcing down his smile, Sherlock looked in the direction John and Sarah were walking off— the way out of the crime scene— then back at Harley. "Shall we, then?" he asked, offering a hand out to her.

She stared at his outstretched hand for only a second. Then she let out a soft sigh and took it, stepping down from the ambulance. They were about to walk off, but not before Harley took a moment to remove the blanket from her shoulders and fling it carelessly into the ambulance, nearly hitting a paramedic in the face. The medic sent her a disgruntled look. Looking skyward innocently, she turned away and kept walking, much to Sherlock's amusement.

Detective Inspector Dimmock was standing by a police car just ahead of them, looking at them expectantly as they strode closer, passing a few officers, until they stopped in front of him. Harley was rather surprised to find that the DI didn't look so irritated with Sherlock anymore. If anything, he looked quite humbled.

"We'll just slip off," Sherlock told Dimmock quietly. "No need to mention us in your report."

"Mr. Holmes—"

"I have high hopes for you, Inspector," Sherlock cut him off, "a glittering career."

There was a stunned silence between the two men as well as the girl before it was broken by Dimmock a second later. "I go where you point me," he said sincerely.

Sherlock smiled smugly as he and Harley started walking off again. "Exactly," he said over his shoulder. Harley glanced back at Dimmock, who smiled as he watched them go. Then, after writing something down in the notepad, she looked back at Sherlock with a raised eyebrow, one corner of her mouth dipped downward a bit.

"And what's that look for?" Sherlock asked, noticing her expression.

She held the notepad out to him:

' _Glittering career'? That was the biggest load of crap I've ever heard, you should change your profession to consulting fertilizer._

Now it was Sherlock's turn to raise an eyebrow at her admittedly accurate accusation, but taking some humor out of it by smirking nonetheless. "Well," he said, "I said that mostly to get him to start thinking— on the off chance I have to work with him again. Then he'll know to take my advice more willingly. His brain seemed to finally get the message now."

Harley glanced back and smiled slightly. Yes, it seemed that now the Detective Inspector had _finally_ learned his lesson this time. Of course, it would've been better if he got it a couple of days ago, instead of when they were all in danger and the case was coming to a close anyway. Better late than never, she supposed.

They continued walking down the street in silence. Up ahead, John and Sarah were hailing a taxi to head to Sarah's home, while Sherlock called out for one for him and Harley back to Baker Street, leaving the tramway for good.

On the way, Harley shifted slightly in her seat, tucking her feet under her, until she was mostly facing her window on her side, folding her arms tight over her chest. She rested her head against the back of her seat and stared out at the passing buildings outside her window until she closed her eyes; though she wasn't all that tired, still a bit restless from the experience. She sat like that for most of the ride, her eyes shut but not falling asleep, listening to the quiet rumble of the car's engine as they drove through the London streets. Occasionally, she'd get a cold chill, and tuck herself closer together with a shiver, almost making her wish she had kept that orange blanket the paramedics gave her. Then she heard a slight movement from behind her, but she disregarded it. But a couple of seconds later, her eyes flew open as she felt something warm and heavy suddenly envelope her from behind.

 _What the…?_

Without moving a muscle, she glanced down and saw, to her surprise, that she was covered by Sherlock's long, black coat, warming her up with his leftover body heat. It was so large in size compared to her; it was more fit like a throw blanket with sleeves to her.

 _Oh._

She stared straight out the window in vague astonishment. Then she quickly shut her eyes again and huddled herself even closer together underneath the coat, not even daring a glimpse back at the detective in fear that it would ruin the moment because she didn't know how to react to such a gesture. Instead she continued to sit there, her back facing him— though, now she was a bit distracted by the lingering scent of nicotine protruding from the coat. She heard something equivalent to a sigh from behind her, but didn't acknowledge that she heard it.

The cab slowed to a stop by the curb several minutes later. Harley opened her eyes tiredly and saw that they had finally arrived back at Baker Street. She sat up straight, the coat sliding off her in the process. She grabbed it and, glancing over at Sherlock once, she warily held it out for him to take back, which he did so accordingly without speaking, before leaving the car. They stepped into the flat, Harley already climbing up the stairs to 221B, while Sherlock stayed put for a moment at the bottom, his head tilted slightly as he listened for the sound of Mrs. Hudson, but there was nothing. She was most likely asleep, to Harley's relief. She really liked the woman, but now was not the time for the landlady to start fussing over them— especially when Harley was now beginning to get a headache.

Harley stepped into the living room, only to stop short and do a double take at the yellow graffiti on the windows. She had almost forgotten that the smugglers had done that as they were taking her and Sarah away. She closed her eyes, letting out an unsteady breath, before she reopened them and turned away, walking straight through the kitchen and toward the supply closet. Looking in for a second, she found what she was looking for: some of that extra-strength stain remover spray and a used towel that she'd seen Mrs. Hudson use to clean a few times before. She returned to the living room, stepped up onto one of the desk chairs, and started spraying a heavy coating onto the paint and scrubbing it off. It took a while, but eventually the paint started to slowly fade away. Sometime while she started cleaning, she heard Sherlock enter the room, but he didn't say anything as she continued to scrub, putting more elbow grease into it.

After what seemed like a long time, all traces of the paint were finally wiped away. Harley jumped down and backed up a bit, wiping some sweat from her brow with her forearm. After making sure the windows truly were no longer marked by the horrors of what the occupants of 221B had been through that night, she let out a sigh, though it wasn't in relief. She still felt tense, despite everything.

Shaking her head, she turned and trudged back through the kitchen, intent on putting the spray back where she found it and the now mostly yellow towel in a hamper, hardly registering the consulting detective sitting in his chair, watching her every move.

She returned to the living room only to grab her notebook from the desk. Then Sherlock broke the silence, hands steepled over his chin as he glanced at her. "Turning in for the night?"

She looked at him solemnly and nodded once. _Or at least I'll try to,_ she thought. _Probably end up just staring at the wall, rethinking everything._

"Very well. Your uncle should be back any minute now," he said. Then he added in a murmur, "I'll just be down here."

 _Right, because you almost never sleep to the point of near vampirism,_ she thought wryly. She started to turn, but then stopped. She looked down at her notebook with a pensive frown, debating hard about something, then snuck a glance over at Sherlock. He stared straight ahead, but she could tell that he had her in his peripheral vision, probably wondering what was on her mind and why she was hesitating.

 _Oh, hell with it,_ she thought with finality after a moment. Before she could change her mind, she strode over to Sherlock's side, leaned over, and gave him a very quick and light kiss on the cheek, as her way of saying, _thank you, for everything_. Then she spun around and retreated upstairs to her room, not sticking around to see Sherlock stare after her with a rather stunned look forming on his face, slowly moving a hand up toward his cheek.

John returned to the flat about half an hour later after Harley had turned in to her room. She was lying on her bed, already changed into her pajamas long before, her light still on as she stared straight up at the ceiling when she heard him coming up the stairs. She sat up as soon as the door opened, and her uncle came in.

"Hey," he said in a soft voice. He walked across the room and sat down at the edge of her bed. Harley reached for her notebook from the side table before she scooted back a little so she could lean back against the bedrest and give him more room to sit.

At first, none of them said or wrote anything, sitting in silence. John was clearly thinking of what he was going to say. In the end, he opted with, "Some night, huh?"

Harley nodded grimly, looking down at her hands in her lap.

"You want to talk about it?"

Harley refrained from grimacing in disdain. She knew that John didn't mean for her to literally talk in that way, but it still felt a teeny bit degrading when people said things like that to her. She slowly shook her head. _Not really._

John looked at her with a sad smile. Then, without uttering a word, he scooted closer and pulled her into a gentle hug, in which Harley obliged to almost instantly, setting her notebook to the side, abandoned for the time being. They sat like that for a long time. No words spoken. Just holding each other.

"You were so brave back there, sweetheart," John whispered.

 _Actually, I was terrified to no end,_ she mentally corrected. But if he really wanted to think that, that was okay too.

Then John pulled away and bit his lip once before saying, "So…you set an assassin on fire at the circus? That was actually you?"

Harley looked away and nodded timidly.

John shook his head, letting out a laugh that surprised Harley as she glanced at him warily. "That's insane."

Harley shrugged lightly.

Then John let out a heavy sigh. "But you shouldn't have been put in danger like that."

She carefully took her notebook back. _I'm sorry,_ she wrote.

He shook his head, smiling ruefully. "Oh, no, no. I don't blame you. It's not your fault."

After he said that, Harley quickly wrote down something and showed it to him urgently: _It's not Sherlock's fault, either. So please don't be mad at him._

John's brows furrowed a bit before looking up at her, one brow rising. "You really like Sherlock, don't you?" he asked, almost like he couldn't believe it.

She nodded.

"Really?" His tone was skeptical.

She paused for a moment before scribbling down: _He's one genetic enhancement away from being a Star Trek villain, but yes, I like him._

John chuckled. "Well, he seems to like you too…if that's possible for him. He usually doesn't get along with _anyone_."

 _You get along with him fine,_ Harley countered.

"No, I _tolerate_ him. There's a big difference."

Harley managed a slight smile at that.

"But…how about for the rest of your stay here, we lay off the criminal chasing, alright?"

Harley's head snapped back up at him in surprise.

"What is it?" her uncle asked, puzzled by her expression.

She hesitantly wrote down: _You're not going to send me home early?_

John frowned at the message. Then he looked up at his niece with a soft gaze. "Not if you don't want me to." Then, after looking away awkwardly for a second, he added, "Just, uh…don't let your mother know about what happened."

Harley felt like a weight that she'd been carrying all evening had been lifted off her shoulders when he said that. With a small smile, she made a zipping motion across her lips, letting him know that their secret was safe and that she was grateful, earning a smile back from him.

"So, you're sure you're alright?" John asked after a moment of silence, his smile slowly fading into a look of concern towards her.

She had a sinking feeling that he was thinking back to when they were trapped in that tramway, when she had that little episode. She nodded— even though just thinking about the event herself brought up a sick, heavy feeling in her. But she didn't want him to worry.

John stared at her, like he knew that she really wasn't alright. Then, after a long moment, he sighed with resignation as he started to stand up. "Alright, then. Try and get some sleep now. You've had a long day." He leaned down to give her a comforting kiss on the forehead. "And if you ever need me, I'm just across the hall."

She gave an affirmative nod, settling back down into her bed under the covers.

"Good night, Harley," John said, before turning off the light and closing the door behind him, finally leaving Harley alone for the rest of the night.

For what seemed like a long time, she stared straight up at the now darkened ceiling before she sighed tiredly. John was right, they all had a very long day, and she was spent. Turning on her side, she closed her eyes and tried to go to sleep.

If only it were that easy.

Just as she had dozed off into sleep, images suddenly flashed across her vision. She couldn't fully make them out; it was mostly dark, with some bright spots. And with those images, that horrible feeling of dread and pain she had felt back in the tunnel would course through her body.

She jolted awake and bolted upright, gasping, a hand over her now erratically beating heart. For a second, she sat there, staring ahead as she inhaled and exhaled heavily, until she squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed thickly, trying to get ahold of herself. She let out a long breath, reopening her eyes and wiping the cold sweat from her forehead. Her body still shook from the effects of her night terror.

 _What's wrong with me?_ she thought anxiously, resting a hand against her forehead as she stared down at the foot of her bed, still quite shaken up.

She started to get out of bed and cross her room, intent on going to John. But then she stopped herself, her trembling hand just inches from touching the door handle. She slowly drew her hand back, reconsidering. She looked back at the digital clock. It was three o'clock in the morning. John had to be fast asleep by now. She didn't want to disturb him by waking him, just because she had some nightmare.

 _Sherlock's most likely still awake. Probably still downstairs right now,_ her mind reminded her as she stood there. Her hand unconsciously moved toward the door again, only for her to quickly draw it back, dismissing the thought. _Don't be stupid. He wouldn't bother himself with something like this,_ she admonished herself.

With a sharp shake of her head, she turned and jumped back into bed, as if staying out of it for any longer would've caused her pain. She huddled under the covers, clutching her pillow like her life depended on it. Her body continued to shake as she lay there on her side, staring straight ahead in the quiet, lonely darkness, now fearing that if she closed her eyes again, that feeling would come back and haunt her.

 _This…is going to be a long night._

* * *

 **A/N- So...yeah. Apologies again. Not very much happened in this chapter, I'm afraid. Basically a lot of talking and speculating and inner-musings. Basically, it was Harley coping with what she had been through in the last chapter...and Harley's mentality slowly beginning to unravel.**

 **Again, we'll pick back up in the next chapter, and that'll be the end of the Blind Banker. Good thing, too. I think what I like the most about writing a Sherlock fic is when you can come up with ideas of what could happen in those moments that are NOT in the episodes. Those little moments off screen. What the characters could do between cases and take the time to just be themselves. As I said before once, I plan on having Harley spend some time with Sherlock after this episode is done and over with.**

 **And then after that? Well...that will be when the games truly begin.**


	17. Case Solved, Or Is It?

**A/N- To the lovely guest who asked for another chapter in Sherlock's POV: "Ask, and ye shall receive."**

 **Well, in actuality, I was already focusing this chapter on Sherlock anyway. So you're either the luckiest person in the world, or some kind of psychic...*hastily wraps foil around my head* GET OUT OF MY HEAD, WITCH!**

 **Okay, okay, let's see if I can make this as brief as possible. So, so, so, so, SO sorry about how long it's been. But quite a lot has happened since I was last on here. I went to Washington D.C. Got to see all of the monuments and museums** **, which was super amazing! I flew back home on a plane for the first time...it made me question why I ever want to drive anywhere ever again. And one of my older sisters just had her firstborn child, which was why I bolted back home a little earlier than planned so I wouldn't miss it.**

 **The best part about my new nephew besides the fact that he's gorgeous is that he was born on the same day Percy Jackson was born, August 18. It's nice to finally have someone else in the family with the same birthday as a favorite fictional character (I share the same birthday with Bilbo and Frodo Baggins, September 22).**

 **Yep. I was destined to be geekily awesome at birth. And now my nephew will have the same burden.**

 **Alright, so that's what's been up with me. But now I'm back! :D**

 **Disclaimer: I only own my OC.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

Unbeknownst to either of the Watsons in the early hours of morning, Sherlock was standing silently at the stairwell, listening. He did not know what to think at the moment. All he knew was that while he was in the living room, he heard sharp intakes of breaths from upstairs where Harley was supposed to be sleeping, followed by the sound of her moving from the bed. Her usually light footsteps across the floor were quick, anxious to get somewhere, only for them to come to an abrupt halt. A few moments later, he heard her return to her bed in a haste. He could tell just from hearing her alone that she was under stress. _Nightmare,_ he presumed. That was only natural, though, considering what she had been through that evening. He listened once more, but no other sound came from the girl's room. Not even a sniffle. Though he just knew that she was still awake, suffering alone.

He stood at the stairwell and stared up at the closed door. There was a part of him that wanted to go and see what was wrong, but he quickly stopped his foot from taking that first step, wondering why he thought that and why he got such an impulse. He frowned up the stairs, then turned and silently made his way back to the sitting room with a sigh. No, it wasn't his place to interfere.

But why did she choose not to go to her uncle for consolation? Wasn't that what children normally did when they were frightened from the throes of a nightmare?

Then again, he wouldn't exactly consider Harley Watson a normal child.

He flopped down onto the couch and rested his hands together in their steeple-like position, not taking his eyes off the ceiling as though if he stared long enough he'd look right through the floor and into her room. He still couldn't get the image of her when they returned to Baker Street out of his head. Her stiff and strained muscles. Her knuckles which turned white from cleaning the windows with a little too much forcefulness (Sherlock had considered saying something about that, but then he realized that that was how she was taking her mind off what happened— or at least _trying_ to— and decided against it. And even if he did, it'd probably fall on deaf ears anyway). And then there was her face; Stoic, solemn, tired. But it was something else as well— something she was trying to hide behind her mask, but he saw right through it: she looked haunted. As though she had seen or felt something so horrible that she was slowly becoming an empty shell.

But, as usual, she didn't say or express anything that betrayed any sort of distress. Not to him, and if what he had heard and seen from John before the ex-army doctor turned in, not to her uncle either.

He shot up from the couch in a frustrated huff, only to stride over to where he kept his pack of nicotine patches stashed in the desk drawer by the window. He took out two of the round, tan patches after rolling up his left sleeve and stuck them onto his pale arm. Then he returned to the sofa. He pressed down on the patches to get the nicotine to release more quickly, clenching and unclenching his left fist. He exhaled noisily as he felt the patches begin to take effect. Perfect. This was a two-patch problem.

Harley (Harleen? Still quite unsure about that) Watson. Daughter of Harriet Watson. Twelve years old. Mute. When she had first arrived at Baker Street, she was so…well, he wouldn't say shy, just very reserved and cautious about everything. About _him_. But once she spent a little more time with him and conversed with him, she eventually allowed her defenses to lower— for the most part.

And he found himself overall intrigued by what he had learned about her the more time he spent with her. One of the best memories of her first week so far had been when he had her take the human fingers he had gotten from St. Bart's out of the fridge for his experiment. It was mostly a ruse to see how she would react to seeing severed flesh. He knew she was blasé about Billy the skull, but he wanted to see how she felt towards newly dead body parts— and perhaps even rouse a noise out of her. But she didn't even gasp in horror. She merely reacted naturally to the strong smell, then proceeded with his request with hardly a shudder. And what's more, she stuck around to see what he was going to do with them, her curiosity having gotten the better of her.

And ever since then, that curiosity gradually grew and revealed itself more and more, along with her personality.

Over the course of the smuggling case, he knew of these things by observing Harley: She was inquisitive by nature but not to the point of being overly meddlesome or asking stupidly obvious questions. She distrusted authority, and when she found she didn't like them she didn't even try to fake politeness towards them. She also had little to no patience for anyone's nonsense, especially if they were patronizing her (Sebastian Wilkes being a hilarious example). She had a dry wit that most people didn't know about, much like her uncle; he could barely imagine the things she thought about that she never wrote down for others to see— though he had a feeling that they would most likely get her into trouble if she did.

But what intrigued Sherlock the most was that Harley seemed to immensely enjoy all the aspects of crime solving. As mentioned, she was a very inquisitive girl. Because she didn't and couldn't ask questions without first writing them down, she opted to actually try to figure something out for herself before doing anything else. And when she did (with some help from him, of course), she got excited, knowing that they were one step closer in solving a mystery. He also found, to his amusement, that whenever he complimented her, her face would flush up and look embarrassed, informing him that she was as sensitive to flattery on account of her intellect as any other young girl would be of her appearance. She wasn't exactly a genius like him, but she was sharp. She noticed things most people tended to miss. She didn't just see; she observed and analyzed— tried to see the whole picture and actually _think_ while others were too busy going about with meaningless chatter. And as a plus, she seemed look up to him and admire him for his brilliance— even going as far as to defending him from Sebastian's warnings against him.

It also didn't hurt that she was one of the very few individuals who he could stay in the same vicinity with and hold conversations without boring him to death. Quite the refreshing specimen indeed.

In short: she had potential.

If only her social anxiety and selective mutism weren't in the way most of the time.

As he had observed the first day, she was respectful when it came to personal space and belongings. But it seemed like sometimes, it was to the point where she was afraid to touch _anything_. It was as if she was afraid someone would punish her for doing so. And when she did touch something, she went out of her way to make it like she never touched it in the first place. And when she thought she did something wrong, she immediately apologized for it, even if it wasn't her fault or even a big deal.

As mentioned earlier, she would always get flustered— sometimes even shocked—whenever he complimented her for something. She must not be used to it, which he found rather odd. Didn't her teachers— hell, didn't her own _parents_ realize how bright a child she was? He supposed not— not with Harry and her own tedious problems with drinking and the divorce, and he assumed Clara was out of the picture since John informed him that they had split up months ago. He also remembered that day when it was just him and Harley alone while John was out getting the shopping. She had clued him in on her life at school, how all the teachers treated her like she was some unbalanced student who needed "special" attention. Idiots. They didn't care about how she excelled in her studies; they only cared about how she behaved socially.

And if her teachers treated her like so, he could only imagine how her fellow students treated her…something he could secretly relate to. Unfortunately, it seemed to have reached a point where Harley herself wasn't aware of what she was capable of.

He was also convinced that she had a slight case of DSI, on account of her flinching at almost every loud noise she heard and her body tensing up whenever she was touched, especially by people she hardly knew. The only exception was John, whom she willingly gave hugs and kisses on the cheek to, which was reasonable— he was her uncle, the only extended family she cared about and was emotionally attached to.

 _So what does that say about last night?_ Sherlock asked himself, recalling when she had kissed _him_ on the cheek before running off to bed. His hand unconsciously went to his cheek, where her lips touched for what seemed like only a nanosecond. Then he quickly and forcefully shook off the strange, yet warm feeling that rose up in his chest again since the incident, rubbing his temples with a sigh and returning to his thought process.

Funnily enough, he found to his immense surprise that despite all of that anxiety, Harley still had the drive to act out in times of danger. His first clue was when they broke into Edward Van Coon's flat; he saw that flicker of doubt that crossed her face as they were climbing down the balcony, but then it was gone, and she jumped down anyway. But it wasn't fully realized until they went to the circus, when they were confronted by the assassin. She torched him with a homemade flamethrower. A _flamethrower_. And even afterwards, she still stood her ground even though she had nothing else to protect herself and him. Then when she was kidnapped; she used the very little time she had to leave a trail for Sherlock and a message, letting him know of their predicament, and knowing that he would find them. Then in the tramway; he had made it just in time to see General Shan activate the escapology act on Sarah while taunting both the woman and Harley (who looked very distraught for some reason), but even then, Harley refused to allow her fear to take complete control over her, especially when Sherlock was otherwise engaged with Zhi Zhu while the arrow was about to be fired. She didn't just sit there; she persevered to save Sarah along with John. And they did.

Sherlock smirked. She truly was her uncle's niece. They both seemed to have that hidden craving for adventure— the thrill of the chase— whether they knew it or not; not to mention they were loyal almost to a fault.

Then his smirk faded. Again, if only those insecurities weren't holding her back…

Suddenly, he was pulled up out of his deep thoughts by a creak of the floorboards just from the other room. He blinked himself back into the sitting room. Glancing out the window with a frown, he saw that the sky was beginning to turn grey with the oncoming morning. He checked his watch; it was almost seven, a few hours since he last checked.

Light footsteps brought his attention back, walking across the kitchen, through the hallway, and towards the bathroom. Not John's.

He stood from his place on the sofa, ripping the nicotine patches off his arm in the process, and strode into the kitchen, intent on brewing some coffee for himself— and perhaps Harley if she wanted any. He also began to prepare some tea for John, as he knew his flatmate preferred tea in the morning. As he did so, he could hear Harley using the facilities in the bathroom, until a few moments later, he heard the door slowly open. He turned just in time to see her slowly round the corner and enter the kitchen.

"Morning," he said, discretely looking her over. She had washed her round face just moments ago, but there were still dark shadows under her eyes, her wavy hair was slightly disheveled on one side, her pace and posture a bit sluggish. She didn't get much sleep, and not very well, it seemed. The swelling on the side of her face where she was hit had gone down significantly, thankfully. Despite what he had told her the night before, there was a small part of him that minded that General Shan had escaped. When he first saw the red hand print on Harley's face that only matched that woman's size, it did something to him— something he couldn't quite explain at first. He realized later that he was angry. Angry that Shan— an ordinary woman who had stupidly mistaken John for him— had hurt Harley and had gotten away with it. Why he felt that way and still did whenever he recollected the event, he had yet to uncover. He did, however, take tremendous satisfaction in striking down the henchman who had taken her and John.

Harley merely glanced up at him and nodded in acknowledgment before quietly trudging over and sitting down at the dining table, her hands in her lap as she stared at the center of the table, where he had placed the pictures of the deciphered codes from the night before.

"Tea, or coffee?" he asked her.

Her eyes flickered up to the coffee pot he was currently holding, lingering there for a second, before looking up at him. He smiled. "Coffee it is." And he proceeded in making some. He wasn't sure if it was considered strange that in the course of the last week, he now understood the subtle gestures and micro-expressions this little girl made far more than he understood the average idiot speaking. Either way, he admittedly found it to be oddly endearing.

He took the time to retreat to his bedroom to change into fresh clothes while the coffee brewed, and came out donning a white button-down shirt under a black blazer and trousers. Harley had remained in her seat, though she had now taken a mild interest in absently tracing her finger over the scratches and burn marks on the table, abused from sword fights and experiments gone wrong in the past. However, when she heard him reenter, she quickly coiled her fingers into her palm and held it with her other hand.

He poured the now finished coffee into two mugs— black and two sugars for him, added milk and three sugars for her— and set hers down in front of her, taking the seat across from her. A corner of her lips twitched up into a faint smile in gratitude before it instantly fell, blowing into her cup and taking a sip. Her eyes closed for a moment, letting the taste take its course, before swallowing and reopening them.

"You know, at your age, it's probably not healthy for you to be drinking coffee," Sherlock remarked a few moments later.

Her eyes narrowed as she stared right at him, slowly moving her cup closer to her like it was the most precious thing in the world, her expression crystal clear: _Just try and take it from me and see what happens. I dare you._

He smirked at her. "I was only teasing, but your face at the moment kind of proves my point."

Fittingly, her face did not change as she slowly yet deliberately took another drink, then it reverted back to neutral, but tired. He supposed that was her little way of saying, _Whatever._

They sat in silence, until a little while later, they heard John emerge from his room and make his way downstairs. Sherlock stood up and Harley took one last swig of her coffee just as John came into the kitchen.

"Morning, John," Sherlock greeted, getting another mug out.

"Morning," John replied in kind. Then he playfully tapped Harley on the back of the head as he walked past her with a smile, "Hey, trouble-maker," in which Harley responded by punching him on the arm without even glancing up, but there was still the smallest hint of a smile under her cup before it vanished.

The Watsons certainly had an unusual way of bantering with each other.

John had sat down at the table just as Sherlock poured him a mug of tea and offered it to him.

"Ta," the ex-army doctor thanked him before he took notice of the photo bearing the translated message. He dragged it closer to him and squinted at it, trying to understand it. "So…'nine mill'…"

"Million," Sherlock provided, picking up his own cup again.

"Yes, 'nine million for jade pin. Dragon den, black Tramway.'"

"An instruction to all their London operatives," Sherlock explained.

John hummed in understanding.

"A message. What they were trying to reclaim."

"What, a jade pin?"

"Worth nine million pounds." He pointed at the picture. "Bring it to the tramway, their London hideout."

John straightened, looking confused. "Hang on— a hairpin worth nine million pounds?"

Sherlock shrugged lightly as he took a sip of his coffee. "Apparently."

"Why so much?"

"Depends on who owned it."

Then Sherlock glanced over at Harley, who now had a contemplative frown etched on her face as she stared at the picture, as if something had just occurred to her, but she was still trying to fully understand it.

"So, that's it, then?" John asked, bringing the consulting detective's attention back to him. "Case solved?"

"Not entirely," he answered. He placed his mug down, smiling at the two Watsons. "I believe we have a check to go and collect from the bank."

Much later in the day found the three of them exiting a taxi cab and making their way towards the Shad Sanderson Bank. Sherlock, as usual, led the way while the uncle and niece followed behind. The detective noticed how Harley seemed to be lagging a little more behind than usual. She had been acting a little off since that morning, like she was distracted, but she still tried to keep up as best as she could nonetheless.

"Two operatives, based in London," he began to explain as they approached the tall building. "They travel over to Dalian to smuggle those vases. Then one of them helps himself to something: a little hairpin."

"Worth nine million pounds," John pointed out with a nod.

"Eddie Van Coon was the thief. He stole the treasure when he was in China."

"How do you know it was Van Coon and not Lukis?" John asked him as they approached the revolving doors. "Even the killer didn't know that."

Sherlock looked back at them with a smug smile. "Because of the soap."

The expressions that erupted from both the Watson's faces were quite comical. John merely stared blankly at him. But Harley had stopped in her tracks, her eyes widening and her mouth slightly parting with comprehension, before she quickly snapped out of it and jogged back into pace with them.

Sherlock faced forward again and continued into the bank, a knowing smirk on his face. He knew she'd get there eventually.

Once up on the trading floor, it was decided that John went to meet up with Sebastian to collect their due and point out the hole in the bank's security. For obvious reasons, Harley decided against accompanying him, instead going with Sherlock to go meet with Van Coon's secretary. As they walked across the trading floor, Sherlock took out his phone and dialed Amanda's office number, putting it on speaker so that the both of them could listen.

"Amanda?" came the woman's voice from the phone a few seconds later.

"He brought you a present," Sherlock said, not one for wasting words and pleasantries, instead getting right to the point.

"Oh, hello," Amanda replied in a tone that indicated that she wasn't all that surprised.

"A little gift when he came back from China," he continued. They were now approaching the secretary's desk from behind, the woman still on the phone, oblivious of their presence.

"How do you know that?" she asked.

Sherlock instead lowered his phone and turned it off as he raised his voice an octave, making them known to Amanda, "You weren't just his PA, were you?"

Amanda turned in surprise as Sherlock and Harley walked around her desk. Then she recomposed herself. "Someone's been gossiping," she commented, hanging up her phone.

"No," Sherlock said bluntly. As mentioned, he didn't waste pleasantries. And based on the slightly unamused look Harley currently had from the remark, neither did she— not that she had much choice. As they stopped in front of the desk, facing Amanda, Harley tilted her head slightly as she focused more on the pin in the woman's hair, as if making sure that it truly was what they were looking for, before returning her face to normal.

Amanda looked confused. "Then I don't understand. Why—?"

"Scented hand soap in his apartment, three hundred milliliters of it," Sherlock told her, recalling seeing the large bottle in the bathroom when they were in the man's flat. "Bottle almost finished."

Amanda frowned. "Sorry?"

"I don't think Eddie Van Coon was the type of chap to buy himself hand soap— not unless he had a lady coming over. And it's the same brand as that hand cream there on your desk." He pointed at the pump bottle of hand lotion in front of her, proving his point.

Amanda looked down uncomfortably before lifting her gaze back up. "Look, it wasn't serious between us," she said. "It was over in a flash, it couldn't last….He was my boss."

"What happened? Why did you end it?" Sherlock asked.

Amanda looked down once more, except it was in sadness and grief. "I thought he didn't appreciate me, took me for granted. Stood me up once too often. We'd plan to go away for the weekend and then he'd just leave— fly off to China at a moment's notice."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "And he brought you a present from abroad to say sorry."

"Yes, he got me this hairpin," she said, gesturing to the one currently in her hair. Then she looked over at Harley with a smile. "You were nice to me about it the other day."

Harley looked away awkwardly.

Then Sherlock held his hand out for the pin. "Can I just have a look at it?"

Amanda carefully took out the pin with one hand, the other keeping her hair in place. "He said he bought it in a street market," she told him as she handed it over.

"Oh, I don't think that's true. I think he pinched it," Sherlock said as he held it up for them to get a proper look at the delicate carving on the end.

Amanda chuckled. "Yeah, that's Eddie."

"Didn't know its value— just thought it would suit you."

"Oh? What's it worth?" she asked curiously, leaning forward and rubbing her hands together— clearly not anticipating its value to be very high.

Sherlock and Harley shared a look before the detective turned back to Amanda with a smirk and said slowly, "Nine…million…pounds."

As she registered what he told her, the secretary's face filled with shock, her breathing increasing. "Oh, my God! Oh, my G—!" she shouted as she stumbled to her feet and staggered backwards. Sherlock's smirk grew into a full grin as her mouth opened and closed, trying to find the proper words to say, but instead turned and ran away in a hysteric. "Nine million!" her now high-pitched voice resounded throughout the entire floor.

A chuckle escaped Sherlock's mouth as he watched her go. Then he looked down at Harley, who like him, watched the PA run off, but unlike him, she only managed a half-smile of amusement for a few seconds before it was gone, replaced with that grave, almost distant look again.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but before he could look further into it, John appeared from around the corner, an envelope in his hands, no doubt withholding the check. "I take it you guys told her about the hairpin," he said as he met up with them.

"Yes, she took it rather well," Sherlock said wryly.

John laughed. "So I heard. Oh, and here," he handed the envelope over to Sherlock. "Don't want some mafia leader to think I'm you again."

Sherlock chuckled along with him as they started to walk off. Honestly, what _was_ Shan thinking?

"One other thing," John said, looking between the two of them suspiciously, "Sebastian seemed pretty cross when I met with him. You two wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

The detective and the girl shook their heads no, a little too quickly to pass by John. He rubbed a hand down his face with a groan. "You know what? I don't even want to know anymore. Dear God, I'm already dealing with one child. I don't need two."

Harley lowered her head and let out a small huff of air through her mouth, like a silent scoff. Sherlock smirked before changing the subject, "Hungry?"

"Starving," John replied before turning to Harley. "You?"

She didn't appear all that enthusiastic about the mention of food, but nodded anyway.

Sometime later, they were in a café somewhere near Baker Street to get something to eat. Sherlock, having consumed nothing but tea, water, and coffee for three days straight, finally allowed himself to give in to the need for food now that the case was cracked and ordered something— and not because of the unnecessary nagging from John.

Harley, on the other hand, had barely touched her food, only taking a few bites every once in a while to pacify her uncle, but otherwise she mostly just stared and picked at it with her fork— even though she hadn't eaten much herself the past couple of days. Occasionally, her bottom lip would lightly twitch, almost like she was trying to murmur to herself or something, but of course, no sound came out.

Sherlock frowned lightly at her behavior, wondering what was wrong with her. Yes, he could usually tell what she was trying to get across by now— when she _wanted_ to be heard, that is. But the rest of the time, it was still quite difficult to tell what was going through that girl's head.

His curiosity didn't waver when after they finished eating (for the most part), they returned to 221B in the late afternoon. The flat was now free of all the crates of books; Sherlock having called Scotland Yard earlier that day and having a team come and pick them up while they were out. Harley had gone straight to her room as soon as they were upstairs, and that was the last he saw of her that evening.

She must still be recovering from what happened yesterday, he concluded. That had to be the only possible solution. He always found it interesting how differently people handled traumatic events. While Sarah was a crying mess, Harley didn't even shed a tear, though she was still shaken up about it. Those were the two ways: either let it all out, or deal with it in silence. He usually preferred the latter when it came to questioning witnesses. If that was the case, then she simply needed some more time to get better. She'd most likely be back to normal by the next day.

But as it turned out, she didn't.

If anything, she looked worse.

Sherlock emerged from his room the following morning (after _finally_ getting some sleep after several days), and found the young Watson already up, sitting at the table by the window in the sitting room. He had known from the last week that she was usually up early, but this time, she had been up for quite some time. She had a book open in front of her, but her eyes weren't moving across the pages nearly as fast as they usually were, indicating that her mind was focused more elsewhere. The shadows under her eyes were darker than they were yesterday, her face slightly pale, and signs of discomfort around her frame. Another restless night.

Across the table from her was a tray laden with three plates of eggs, toast, bacon, and sausages; as well as three cups and a pot of freshly made tea. Mrs. Hudson had dropped by recently. Harley hadn't messed with the food or tea, but she did take a look at the _Sunday Express_ newspaper that came with the breakfast, which had been cast beside her after reading it over.

Sherlock walked around and sat in one of the empty seats next to her. At the sound of his approach, her eyes snapped up to him, and to his surprise, she looked frightened for a split second. But when she saw that it was only him, she quickly made her face expressionless again and went back to _not_ reading her book.

He stared at her with furrowed eyebrows, not entirely sure what to do or say in this sort of situation. In the end, he decided to just leave her alone, as that seemed to be what she wanted anyway, and picked up the newspaper. Based on the screaming headline, _Who Wants to be a Million-Hair,_ with a picture of the jade pin on the front page, Amanda had been quick to go to the press about her newly discovered valuable.

Not too long after, John came down and joined them. That was when Harley decided to finally take one of the plates and at least look like she was going to eat something— probably to avoid John giving her another lecture about eating. John eyed the paper Sherlock was reading and laughed at the ridiculous pun of a headline before digging into his own plate.

When Sherlock was finished skimming over the front page, he folded the newspaper in half, set it aside, and picked up another newspaper to read.

"Over a thousand years old, and it's sitting by her bedside table every night," John remarked.

"He didn't know its value," Sherlock told him, "Didn't know why they were chasing him."

"Should've just got her a lucky cat," John said jokingly.

Sherlock smiled at him briefly before he looked away towards Harley, who didn't even attempt to smile at John's comment, like she usually would. "Hmm," he hummed thoughtfully.

"You mind, don't you?" John asked him after studying him for a moment.

Sherlock looked back at him. "What?"

"That she escaped— General Shan," he explained. "It's not enough that we got her two henchmen."

Sherlock didn't miss Harley quickly glance up at him before lowering her gaze again.

"It must be a vast network, John," Sherlock told him what he had told Harley the other night, "Thousands of operatives. You and I, we barely scratched the surface."

"You cracked the code, though, Sherlock. And maybe Dimmock can track down all of them, now that _he_ knows it."

"No," Sherlock said with a shake of his head. "No, I cracked this code. All the smugglers have to do is pick up another book." And with that, he unfolded his newspaper and lifted it, beginning to read through it.

The three occupants in the room subtly fell into a silence— Sherlock reading the newspaper, John eating his breakfast, and Harley just…sitting there. She had given up pretend-eating and went back to staring at the open book, not caring if John noticed or not anymore. Sherlock peered at her from behind his paper with slight concern. Something was definitely wrong. He remembered how when she had first agreed to go on the case with them, she looked so— well, not exactly happy, but very eager and bright-eyed and invested, despite what was thrown at her. Now she just looked so…empty.

He also remembered her telling him once that she didn't want to go back home yet, that she wanted to stay.

Now he wondered if that had changed.

* * *

 **A/N- Yeesh, poor Harley. Just when she was beginning to open up, she's back at square one.** **This is also the first time since chapter three that Harley's gone through a whole chapter without writing anything down for someone to see. What does that say?**

 **But don't worry. You know what they say with these kind of things: it always gets worse before it gets better. And it will...in time.**

 **WE'RE FINALLY DONE WITH THE BLIND BANKER! CAN I GET AN AMEN?**

 **AAAAYYYYYY-MEN!**

 **Again, sorry about how long it took for me to finish this, especially since it picks up precisely where the last chapter left off. But now we can move on to other stuff! I am SO excited to get started on writing them! Can't wait!**

 **FINAL NOTE: Okay, something hilarious happened recently, and I just HAVE to share it!**

 **So I'm watching _The_ _Legend of Korra_ with my brother, because it's his first time watching it. There was a scene playing with Korra and Asami having a little moment together. And my brother _jokingly_ comments, "God, those two just need to kiss already!"**

 **And I'm just sitting there...with the stupidest grin on my face and trying so hard not to laugh out loud. "Oh, hon." #Korrasami XD**


	18. Let's Play Deductions

**A/N- Hello, ladies and gentlemen! Long time no see!**

 **Apologies for the long wait. I've been suffering a mad case of writer's block lately. When I think about it, though, that's kind of a record for me regarding this story. It took eighteen chapters for me to finally get stuck on writer's block. Ah, well, it was bound to happen sometime.**

 **...That, and most of my free time in the la** **st two months went something like this:**

 _ **Story:**_ **"Write me, Goddammit!"**

 ** _Me:_ "Later, bruh. *binge-watches every season of ****_Parks and Recreation_ *** **"**

 _ **Story:**_ **"You idiot."**

 _ **Me:**_ **"You beautiful tropical fish."**

 _ **Story:**_ **...*stares awkwardly into the camera like Jim from _The Office_ ***

 **Yeah...my bad.**

 **Disclaimer: I only own my OC. Everything else I don't.**

 **Quote that inspired this chapter and the next few to come: "Friendship is so weird. You pick a human you've met and you're like, 'Yup, I like this one,' and you just do stuff with them." ~ Bill Murray**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

Harley stared, and stared, and stared at her reflection in the mirror, and it stared right back with the same weary bareness. She'd lost track how long she'd been in the bathroom, her hands clutching onto the end of the sink until they were practically numb. She lifted a hand and lightly touched the loose skin underneath her eye, pulling at it a little, then lowered her hand again, letting out a sigh.

It's been three days since the Black Lotus incident, and every night since then, she's woken up from a nightmare regarding the little episode she had in that tramway.

And it was _really_ starting to annoy her.

What was worse, though, what that she still couldn't clearly make out the fractured images and the sounds were too thick. But whatever it was, it would always cause her to wake up in a cold sweat and tears in her eyes. She didn't know what to do, or what to think of it.

She stared at her reflection for another minute before she started to reach for the faucet to turn on the cold water, intending to wash her face one last time. But then there came a knock on the door, startling her. She quickly straightened and turned her head toward the door, her heart racing.

"Harley, are you almost done in there?" John's voice called from the other side. "Some of us have to go to work, you know."

 _It's just John. You're okay._

She closed her tired eyes, trying to regain at least some of her composure, before reopening them and unlocking the door to face her uncle with a small, false smile.

"Thank you," John said with a smile back as they brushed past each other, John taking Harley's place in the bathroom. As soon as the door closed, her smile vanished, and she turned and walked away.

 _You really need to let John know, you know,_ a voice in her head told her. But as soon as she heard it, she dismissed it. John didn't need to get mixed up in all her problems. And the last thing Harley wanted was to have John think that she was slipping over the edge— like everyone else in her life. If this kept up, though, it probably wouldn't be long until he'd start to notice. She hasn't had very much of an appetite as of late. She tried to eat, she really did. But every time she did, it was like her stomach twisted into knots, and she'd stop trying. And if there was one thing John was always concerned about when it came to her, it was her food intake (and Mrs. Hudson, too, apparently, going by the amount of snacks she'd send up frequently). She also hasn't gotten very much sleep lately.

 _Thank God for coffee, though,_ she thought.

She walked through the kitchen and stood in the doorframe between the kitchen and living room for a moment, looking around and detecting no signs of life. Sherlock was still gone. Yesterday, sometime after breakfast, he got a call on his mobile— something about a case, she wasn't really paying that much attention— and he left the flat in a hurry. She hasn't seen him since then. That was one thing she kind of envied about Sherlock— how even after something as intense as fighting off smugglers, he can easily pick himself back up like nothing happened and keep going. She wished she was that strong, instead of the mess she currently was that couldn't even talk.

She exhaled heavily before walking across the room and picking up her algebra packet, which she had finally finished the day before now that she wasn't busy anymore. A few moments later, John came out and met her in the sitting room. "I'll be back late tonight," he told her as he gave her a hug goodbye. "You sure you'll be alright? I'm not sure when Sherlock will be back, but if you get in need of company, Mrs. Hudson's downstairs, as usual."

She gave a confirmed nod, and with one last hug, he left the apartment. Harley went over to the window and watched him hail a cab, leaving Baker Street and headed for work.

Now all was quiet on the 221B front.

Harley looked down at her homework, then up at the bookshelf across the way. Then she left the living room and went upstairs to her room, tossing her packet aside, not caring where it landed, and flopped down onto her bed, burying her face into the pillow. She wasn't even in the mood to _read_ something. That was how lousy she felt.

She eventually turned herself over until she was lying on her back, opening her eyes and staring up at the ceiling. Usually, she didn't mind some time to herself in silence. Sometimes it was all she did when she didn't have anything else to do. But after three days of running around the city nonstop, cracking enigmas and facing criminals, she now felt…she didn't know. Unstimulated? No, that wasn't the word. What was it?

Ah, yes: She was _bored._ Almost to tears.

She closed her eyes and sighed. Was it bad that she kind of wished that something else exciting would happen? Well, maybe not the "get kidnapped by smuggling whack-jobs" part, but still…at least she would have something to keep her occupied.

She wasn't sure how much longer she sat there, but sometime later, she was startled out of her thoughts by a beeping sound that emitted from her mobile phone on the bedside table, her eyes shooting open. She looked over at the phone's now brightly lit screen in surprise before she quickly sat up and grabbed it. This was the first time she had gotten a message since her first day at Baker Street. It could be her mother finally contacting her.

Harley went to her inbox and saw, to her confusion, that she had gotten a text not from her mother, but an unknown number. She opened up the message, and her eyebrows shot up as she read:

 **Downstairs. Come at once if convenient. –SH**

 _SH?_ She thought, puzzled. _Wait…Sherlock?_ He must've returned and she didn't hear him.

Before she could ponder more on the message, her phone beeped again, alerting her of another new text. It was from the same number.

 **If inconvenient, come anyway. –SH**

Harley stared at her phone for a full minute. Two questions ran through her mind. The first: _Did I just get my wish?_ And the second: _How in the hell did Sherlock get my phone number?!_

After contemplating what she was going to do, she decided she might as well go see what it was that he wanted. She supposed it was better than sulking up in her room all day. She was just about to move from the bed until her phone received one last message:

 **Could be dangerous. –SH**

She frowned at the screen. She wasn't sure if he was being serious, or was just trying to pique her interest. She sighed. Then she got up, grabbed her notebook and writing utensils, and headed out of the room, though she was beginning to wonder if it was a good idea.

 _Nah, it probably isn't. But it'll still be interesting._

She didn't know what to expect when she descended the stairs and made her way to the sitting room. He did mention danger. That could mean anything.

She certainly didn't expect find the consulting detective sprawled on the couch, an uninterested look etched on his face and his phone lying on his chest.

She walked into the room, looking around until she fixed her gaze onto Sherlock with a raised eyebrow. _Okay? Where's the fire?_

Upon hearing the girl's entrance, Sherlock looked up at her and said in a tone somewhere between nonchalant and moaning, "Bored."

 _Oh, there it is._

After a moment of staring at him, she looked over at a closed manila folder on the coffee table that got her attention. She walked over and sat in the chair next to the couch, curiously lifting the file open and looking at the case details regarding the death of a thirty-two-year-old man who had been strangled to death; she tried not to be too grossed out by the rather more graphic photographs.

"It was the wife's step-brother," Sherlock spoke up, causing her to let go of the folder and look up at him. "No one else noticed the box of matches. Nothing more than your typical revenge murder. Barely worth my time." He groaned loudly, rubbing his eyes with his palms. "God! Why can't people get murdered in a more clever way?"

Harley stared blankly at him for a long moment, not entirely sure how to respond to such a statement. _Well, people die every day. I'm sure one is bound to be 'clever', as you say, at some point,_ she thought _._ She moved her attention back to the folder, not looking through it anymore, but straightening it on the coffee table absentmindedly out of habit. Then she looked ahead toward the window and sighed. After a few minutes of nothing but silence, though, she flinched back when Sherlock suddenly shot up from the couch beside her and walked right over the coffee table like it wasn't even there. He brushed past her and took his coat and scarf from the hanger on the door.

Harley was just beginning to wonder where he was going until he turned to face her. "Well? Aren't you getting your coat? It's nice outside, but it's still quite cold," he said, looking at her expectantly as he started to tie his blue scarf around his neck.

Harley just stared at him, unmoving. Sherlock sighed impatiently. "You want to stay cooped up in this flat all day or not?"

 _Well, it's not a bad idea,_ she thought, but since she had a feeling that that would only annoy him further, she decided against making it known. Exhaling in defeat, she stood from the chair and went to go bundle up, deciding to at least humor him by doing what he wanted. Besides, after being indoors the past twenty-four-plus hours, it would be nice to get some fresh air again.

The detective was already bounding down the stairs as soon as she remerged wearing her windbreaker, scarf, and backpack. She had to run down two steps at a time to reach him before he was out the door, and they both stepped out into the brisk, midmorning air. Harley squinted at the bright sunlight before her eyes adjusted. Then she looked towards Sherlock, expecting him to be calling out for a taxi, but he wasn't. Instead he turned and started walking down the sidewalk without a second glance. Blinking in surprise, she jogged to catch up and fell into step with him.

 _Oh, we're actually walking somewhere for once?_ She thought. She snuck a glance up at him, waiting for him to tell her where they were going as he hadn't hinted anything yet. But Sherlock just kept staring ahead with those bright, intense eyes, the mystery destination set in mind.

She glared down at the sidewalk in front of her and let out a frustrated huff, closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose. _Fine, don't tell me, then. It's not like I can ask, anyway._

She rubbed her eyes tiredly before reopening them and continuing on. These past couple of rough days has really made her more bitter than she usually was, hasn't it?

After walking for a good few minutes in silence, they found themselves at the edge of The Regent's Park. Harley looked around them as they strode down one of the many trails, taking in the green grass and trees that were just barely beginning to bloom in the late March. There were also quite a few people about. They passed by joggers, bicyclers, mothers pushing baby strollers, and people just lounging about in the grass. Then the lake came into view, which was where Sherlock finally slowed down until they reached one of the wooden benches nearby. Without a word, he sat down onto the bench.

Harley stayed standing at first, staring at the detective. _He…brought me to the park?_ She thought, more than a little confused. _Okay…a little underwhelming coming from him, but okay…?_

She looked out at the lake and watched a group of people rowing by in a boat. Then, after glancing over and seeing that Sherlock was staring at her, as if wondering why she hasn't sat down yet, she warily took a seat next to him on the bench. A gentle breeze rustled her hair, and she brushed it out of her face before returning her hands to her lap.

After a couple of minutes of silence, in which Harley was looking basically anywhere else but at Sherlock and wondering why they were at the park of all places, the detective spoke up, "Let's play a game."

She turned to him, completely caught off guard by the proclamation. _Whaaat?_

Sherlock, of course, was unperturbed, looking at her, "I trust you've never played deductions before."

 _Deductions?_ She slowly shook her head, still a bit puzzled.

"Hmm, pity. Well, you will today." He straightened on the bench and took a breath of the chilled air before he continued, "You've seen me in my line of work, how I can deduce people by observing them."

Harley nodded, recalling the few times she's seen the detective speak out basically anyone's life story after just looking at them.

"That's ultimately the object of the game: use your deduction skills to read things and people around you. For example…" he looked around him for a couple of seconds until he stopped. "See that woman there?" he asked and pointed, prompting Harley to turn and look at a middle aged woman sitting on a bench not far from them. "If I look at her, I can see all sorts of details based on her clothes, her face, the way she holds herself— any little thing about her, I can see just by observing."

She stared at the woman for a moment, then back at Sherlock, the turn of the conversation now fully piquing her interest. After some deliberation, she slowly opened her notebook, took a pencil, and wrote out for him: _And what do you see?_

The corner of Sherlock's lips quirked up after reading her question, his face seeming to brighten a little— almost like she had written the magic words— before he started to speak in a faster pace than normal, "I see a woman in her mid-forties already going through a mid-life crisis. She works in an accounting office and hates her job. She's been married for years, but not happily so— might be planning on divorcing her spouse sometime in the near future, or perhaps the spouse is about to divorce _her_. One of the reasons could be because she's a notorious shopaholic. Or maybe it's the fact that she's trying to get off with the first man who notices her."

Harley blinked as she processed all of those facts about the woman.

"I suppose you want to know how I knew all of that, correct?" he asked her.

She nodded, carefully scooting closer to him so that she could follow his line of sight better and see.

"Alright, look carefully, now. On her fingers there are pressure marks, like she's been typing on a computer or crunching numbers. Also marks on her forearm— edge of a desk. As well as some smudges of ink around the side of her hand, and you can see a faint trace of number markings there. Office job— accounting, to be more specific. As for her failing marriage life; she's wearing her wedding ring, which is old but clean. She regularly removes it from her finger. Every time a man walks by, she tries to make herself look more noticeable. She was eyeing _me_ before she saw that you were with me— so men with children are a deal-breaker to her."

Harley frowned a little at that last bit. Then she shook her head and continued to listen to him finish off his findings.

"And the shopaholic bit was rather easy. You can see a price tag sticking out of the crisp jacket she's wearing, and several fresh receipts bunched up at the top of her purse beside her."

Harley's eyes had followed his descriptions as best as she could while he spoke. When he was finished, she was nothing short of amazed. It must've begun to show on her face, because Sherlock had that smug smirk that she's been seeing a lot lately— not that she minded, really.

That is, until he told her, very seriously, "Now it's your turn."

She froze, her amazement instantly replaced with stricken. She quickly shook her head.

"Yes," was all he said before looking around them once more. "Let's have you start off with an easy one….Ah, yes. That woman, over there." He pointed out a young redheaded woman, who was sitting on a blanket under a tree, reading a paperback novel. "I want you to tell me what you know about her."

When she only shook her head again, only more insistently, he sighed. "Harley," he said, "Trust me when I say, you're smarter than you give yourself credit for. At least try."

She bit her lip as she regathered herself— and also tried to stop the blush she felt beginning to form on her face. She took a calming breath and looked back up to the woman in question.

"Focus on her. Now use all of your senses to notice things about her, and then come to conclusions on what those things could mean," Sherlock coached, then quickly added, "…and don't be _too_ disappointed if you don't get everything."

She regarded him with a flat expression at that. _Your undying faith in me is almost smothering,_ she thought sarcastically before she brought her attention back to the subject of analysis. Blocking out the fact that she had an audience, she squinted slightly as she scanned the woman up and down, trying to take in whatever she was available of seeing. From the woman's frizzy red hair, to her clothes, to her bag and stack of textbooks lying beside her, all the way down to her trainers. And once Harley was finished, she hesitantly started jotting down her findings in her notebook, listing them off. Then she handed it over to Sherlock:

 _-Her name is Jenny_

 _-College student— studying English and psychology_

 _-Tolkien fan_

 _-Bag is custom made_

 _-Was in a hurry this morning_

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up to his hairline when he read it over, then looked back up at her. "And how do you know her name?"

She took her notebook back and wrote out: _The inscription on her bag. It looks like random markings, but it's actually the name Jenny written in Middle Earth Elvish. That alone also says that she is a big fan of J.R.R. Tolkien's work, and that the bag was handmade especially for her._

Sherlock peered at the woman's bag thoughtfully, before looking at Harley with a smirk. "That would also make _you_ a big enough fan to recognize Elvish when you see it."

 _You got that right,_ she thought, looking away to hide her own smirk.

"What else? How did you come to the other conclusions about her?"

 _College student was pretty easy— her textbooks of what she's studying are right there. She was in a hurry this morning because her shirt is inside out, her socks don't match, and there's a smudge of toothpaste on the corner of her mouth. She must've overslept, or she was up late last night studying or something._

"Hmm, not bad for your first try," he told her when she was finished.

 _Is there anything else, though? What do_ you _see from her?_ Harley enquired.

He looked back at the woman. "You saw that her bag was handmade— not just the name imprint, but the whole thing. It's old and worn, judging by the split seams on the bottom right corner of it and the coffee stain, but she has no plans on replacing it, so it holds a sentimental value to her."

Harley nodded in agreement. If she had a bag like that, she'd keep it for as long as she could as well.

"But did you also notice how when she shifted, there was a slight hesitation before leaning more onto her right hip? She must've suffered from a childhood injury that weakened her. If she stands up and walks away while were here, we could see an imbalance in her posture. If she was involved in a homicide case, we'd know whether she was the culprit or not based on prints that were left behind. If the evidence pointed towards a person of irregular gait, she would be the prime suspect."

Harley tilted her head thoughtfully. _Interesting…_

"Always pay attention to even the tiniest of details, Harley," Sherlock explained. "You never know which one could end up being relevant in the world of crime. And remember: when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

Harley blinked. _Whoa,_ she thought with a tint of amazement. _He needs to write this stuff down. It's good._

"Now, you pick the next one."

Harley looked around for a moment, eyeing the people until she singled out a man with a big, black Labrador retriever on one of those retractable leashes, walking along the trail toward them. After scanning the man with narrowed eyes, she brightened a little in excitement when she saw traits about him that looked vaguely familiar to her. She quickly scribbled down what she had observed and showed it to the detective:

 _He's in the military service, going by the haircut, the tan, the disciplined stature in his walk, and the dog tag around his neck. He's also wearing a wedding band, so he's married._

Sherlock looked more closely at the man. Then he looked back at her. "The dog tag, I understand. But you got the other observations based off of John, didn't you?" he said, more like a statement than a question. "You saw the traits in him when he came back from serving in Afghanistan."

She nodded before writing: _His time in the army changed him a lot. He's quieter now, too, but that's not ultimately a bad thing, either._

At least, that's what she thought. She knew that the first few months after John was shot and invalidated back home were very hard for him— if the first couple of entries on his blog proved anything; he still suffered from PTSD and was seeing a therapist, which she could understand. Trying to readjust to domesticity and live a normal life after everything he's been through was something she could only imagine. But seeing him again all through the past week, Harley could tell that he was doing a lot better for himself— ever since he moved in with Sherlock, that is.

Which reminded her…

She quickly added underneath her last note: _By the way, I heard that you basically cured him from his psychosomatic limp. Thanks for that._

Sherlock smirked after reading. "Well, it _was_ psychosomatic. It wasn't that big of a leap."

Harley looked away, trying to hide her growing smile, just as the man they were observing walked past them. As he did so, his dog lumbered over toward them. Harley smiled wistfully and scratched behind the dog's ear after he sniffed her feet with interest, and he wagged his tail before the man tugged on his leash and he ran off to rejoin his master.

Harley watched them walk off before she turned back to Sherlock. _Does John ever play deductions with you?_ she wrote.

"He tried once," he answered. "Not quite sure he wants me to tell you that story if he wants to keep your respect."

 _Ah,_ she thought, biting her lip to keep from laughing. _That bad, was it?_

She wrote another question: _Anyone else?_

She didn't know why she was asking— it just seemed like Sherlock didn't know a whole lot of people that he talked to very often, much less discussed matters involving crimes and problem-solving. But she was curious.

"No," was all he said. But then, after a minute or so, he spoke up again hesitantly yet admittedly, "My brother and I used to play deductions when we were children, though….he'd always win."

Harley raised an eyebrow at his confession. She never would've guessed that he had a brother— and one who sounded like he was on the same intellectual level as Sherlock, apparently. And was it just her, or did she sense a little hostility coming from Sherlock when he said that?

Her question was answered when a moment later, he remarked curtly, "Be grateful you're an only child." And he dropped the subject entirely, not saying anything else about it.

 _Yeah, definitely some hostility there,_ she thought, concluding that his brother must be a sore subject to talk about. She was curious about the story behind why that was, but she also knew that it wasn't her place to pry on someone's personal life. So she simply nodded and let it go.

After about a minute of silence between them, she wrote a message for Sherlock: _Not that I'm not enjoying myself, I really am, but why are we doing this?_

He didn't answer right away, his sharp gaze roaming around the park, until he finally answered, "No real reason. Just passing the time…" he turned his gaze back onto her, "…and trying to distract you."

Harley certainly wasn't expecting that answer. She stared back at him with a mixture of confusion and nervousness. Distract her? From what?

Then, almost as if he could hear her thoughts loud and clear, he explained, "From whatever it is that's been making you so distressed the past few days. You're not sleeping, you're barely eating, you're always tense, you've hardly had the motivation to do _anything_ ; it doesn't take much to figure out that you've been under a considerable amount of stress lately."

As he talked, Harley's face became more and more expressionless, and when he was finished, she looked away, her eyes closing of their own volition for a moment. Of course, that was what this was all about. She supposed she should've known, but maybe deep down, she did know. This was Sherlock Holmes, after all.

"As for why you are showing such symptoms, though," Sherlock continued, "I'd say that you're still recovering from the shock of being abducted, and since you can't talk, that only makes it much harder for you to deal with it. You're just letting it all bottle up inside, letting it consume you."

Harley couldn't help the spark of anger that ignited in her when he said that, though she kept her face steady. _Oh, sure, like I have a bloody choice,_ she thought defensively.

"But it's not just that, is it?"

That caused her to turn back to face him.

"You saw something, back in that tramway before I arrived. Am I wrong?"

She stared at him for what seemed like a long time. Good God, he was good. She slowly shook her head in response.

"And what was it that you saw?"

She looked away again, gazing down at her feet. And there was the question that she had been dreading to hear— one that she couldn't properly answer, at least not yet. It wasn't exactly what she saw, more like what she felt. But how could she even _begin_ to explain that? What logical answer could she possibly provide, when she was still trying to figure it out herself? None of it made any sense. It's been burning her up inside ever since it happened. Or, as Sherlock said, it was _consuming her._ And she hated feeling like this, and not understating why it happened. She was so confused, and upset, and tired. Mostly tired now, though. She hasn't felt like this since…well, since she woke up that one morning and found that she didn't have a voice anymore.

She swallowed thickly when she felt a lump beginning to grow in her throat. _Oh, great. As if getting all choked up is exactly what I need right now._ She quickly suppressed the feeling before it could fully surface. Then she hesitantly took her notebook and pencil back, wrote in it, and showed Sherlock:

 _I honestly don't know._

Sherlock was silent at first after reading her response. He stared right at her, his eyes seeming to scan every little detail of her face, as if trying to uncover any trace that she was lying to him in any way. She merely stared back, thinking sincerely and pleadingly, _Please believe me._

A long moment later, the intensity in Sherlock's eyes lessened, though she could see that he looked a bit disappointed that that was all she could give him. _Yeah, you and me both._

"Well, I figured as such," he said, straightening, "which brings us back to why we're here."

 _Yes, you said it was to distract me,_ she wrote with a small frown.

"Yes, precisely."

When her frown only deepened, Sherlock sent her a knowing, sideways smirk. "You did admit that you were enjoying playing deductions, did you not?"

 _No, I didn't— wait._ She peeked down at her previous notes. _Oh, yeah, I guess I did._ And now that she thought about it, she really was. She did find the game to be quite fun, despite not being nearly as good at it as Sherlock was. And to her surprise, she did find that she felt at least a little better, as it had taken her mind off of all the things that have been bothering her lately, if not for only a little while.

She looked back at Sherlock, smiling a little, before she turned to a clean page in her notebook, wrote down one single word, and showed it to him:

 _Thanks._

Sherlock looked like he was about to smile back, but he suddenly stopped himself from doing so, as though something had just occurred to him, and he schooled his face back to that usual indifferent façade he wore frequently. He straightened in his seat and lightly cleared his throat.

"Yes, well, let's get back to deductions, shall we?" he said, tearing his gaze away from her and searching the park around them again. "How about that man over there?"

Harley couldn't help but smile once more, before she turned and spotted their new target of observation, starting up a new round of deductions. Her smile was still evident as they continued to play— the most she's genuinely smiled in days. She knew that not everything was completely alright right now, or that any of her problems have magically gone away forever. But for now, here, she allowed herself to be distracted from them. For however long it would last, it was just enough to lift her spirits again, at least for her.

And on another note, the day was still young. Who knew what else the consulting detective had planned for the rest of it?

* * *

 **A/N- Did I not mention a couple of times that I wanted to spend the next few chapters after the Blind Banker with Harley and Sherlock spending a day together?**

 **Well, I did. Pay attention more, dweeb.**

 **I'm going to be completely honest (and a bit personal here); this chapter wasn't only hard for me to write because of the writer's block, but because I've been in a situation almost like Harley's before. When I was diagnosed with anxiety and depression a while back, it just felt like my world had toppled in on me. I felt horrible all the time; like not having the motivation to do anything but feeling like you desperately need to do _something,_ being tired yet you can hardly sleep, wanting company but terrified of socializing. And I'm not very good at talking and opening up to other people (though I've tried), so that kind of made it worse. **

**But sometimes, all you really need is someone who is willing to spend time with you. Not really to talk it out, but you know...just to be with you. Hang out, go shopping, watch a movie, read a book... _play deductions_. I'm lucky enough to have family and friends who understand and know that sometimes a good distraction is all I need. And whenever I'm ready to talk, they'll listen. **

**So if any of you ever feel like this at some point in your lives, keep in mind: it _will_ get better, and there's always someone out there for you, somewhere. You just got to let them help you. **

**Thank you, you wonderful, fanfic-reading cherry blossoms, you! And stay tuned. Next chapter, our little duo makes a small visit to a certain Detective Inspector's division at NSY. ;)**

 **Then again...they did just add _Gotham_ to Netflix- **

**_Story_ : *smacks me upside the head* "NO! BAD!"**


	19. G(reg) Lestrade

**A/N- _Story: *drags in a beat up A.J*_ Now, are you finally finished obsessing over _Gotham?"_**

 ** _Me:_ "...Yes."**

 ** _Story: "_ And _Jessica Jones?"_**

 ** _Me: "_ And _Jessica Jones."_**

 ** _Story: "_ And the _Sherlock_ special _?"_**

 ** _Me: "_ And the _Sherlock_** **special."**

 ** _Story:_ "Good. Anything els** **e?"**

 ** _Me: "..._ Re-watching _Avatar_ and _Legend of Korra?"_**

 ** _Story: *headdesk*_**

 **Now, all of that aside, I hope everyone has had a happy holidays! I know I have. But now it's time to get back into the swing of things, what do you say? Vamanos!**

 **Disclaimer: I only own my OC. _Sherlock_ belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

After a long while, Sherlock and Harley eventually grew bored of deducing the people at Regent's Park— which, when Harley thought about it, couldn't have been more well-timed. Around the end, they had started to get a little careless when it came to being discreet about their findings. Like when Sherlock blatantly deduced that the person who walked right by them at the time was cheating on his wife, the man looked like he wanted nothing more than to strangle them both if not for the public. Harley had ducked her head with a hand over her eyes, feeling her face heat up with embarrassment, but she was also shaking with silent laughter.

They walked back to Baker Street, only for Sherlock to have Harley wait outside while he entered the flat, then come back out a minute later with the case file from earlier.

"This case is solved. Might as well return it to the Yard before they conduct a pretend drugs bust in the flat again."

 _Drugs what?_ Harley thought in confusion. But before she could ponder anymore on the comment, Sherlock had already stopped a cab for them, and they were on their way.

As they rode through the heart of London, Harley wrote warily: _So are we going to see Dimmock?_

He shook his head, a brief look of disdain on his face. "No, no. We're going to see Lestrade. He's the one I usually work with on Scotland Yard cases. He's a Detective Inspector as well, but he's slightly more competent than Dimmock."

She raised an eyebrow. _Slightly?_ she thought. She had heard mention of a Lestrade a couple of times since her stay— in a somewhat high regard— but she's had yet to meet the man in person. Based on Dimmock's impression to her, she hoped for both their sakes that Sherlock's definition of "slightly more competent" had a wider range than its actual definition.

Still, it'll be nice to visit Scotland Yard again, now that things have slowed down. The only times she's ever been there, they were in a hurry of some sort, so she didn't have time to fully appreciate it until now.

After several more minutes of driving through the city in silence, they finally pulled up to the familiar building that was New Scotland Yard. They stepped out after paying and approached the building. When they stepped through the doors, though, they were instantly met with staring and whispering from the people that now surrounded them. Harley started to become uneasy at all the chattering going on around them when she noticed some them were looking in their direction, following them with their eyes. It wasn't much of a secret that she didn't like large crowds and so much noise, let alone the fact that the majority of said large crowd's attention currently seemed to be focused on her and Sherlock. As they continued on through towards the lifts in the back, she became more and more paranoid.

Harley swallowed and took a few calming breaths, trying to block out the prattle. She slowly and unconsciously moved a little closer to the consulting detective's side; who, of course, wasn't bothered at all. In fact, he just acted like they all weren't there. Lucky him.

Sherlock glanced down at her, then up at the people as they passed by, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Just ignore them," he muttered to her under his breath.

 _Easy for you to say, you don't have social anxiety,_ she thought.

They _finally_ made it to the elevators, got in one (with no one else, thank goodness), and rode it up a few floors. Harley exhaled slowly, relieved to finally be away from all the people and chatter for a moment.

They both were quiet on the way up, staring straight at the reflective doors in front of them, until Sherlock broke the silence.

"Don't worry," he said, making Harley look up at him curiously, "I've known these people for years, and I _still_ can hardly stand them."

Harley blinked at him, processing what he had said for a moment. Then she turned back to the door just as they reached their intended floor, a small, but amused smile playing at her lips and her tension subsiding a little. She wasn't sure if trying to make her feel better with that comment was his true intention, but if so, he kind of succeeded. He certainly had a strange way of doing that, she had noticed.

The doors slid open, and they stepped out of the lift and into a floor that wasn't nearly as bustling as the ground floor was. There were still quite a few people though— people who also stared at them as they walked by— so Harley made sure to stay close as she followed Sherlock across the room, weaving their way around office cubicles. Harley glanced around them, eyeing some of the people who were openly staring. Some were looking at Sherlock with obvious dislike, but then they would notice her with him, and they would look surprised, shocked even. Why, she wasn't quite certain. Sure, she'd gathered that Sherlock wasn't exactly the most popular person around, per se, but still, these people were acting like they've never even seen a kid before.

Harley averted her gaze from the onlookers, taking Sherlock's advice and trying to ignore them as best she could as they continued on, heading towards an office in the back.

They were just about to reach the office— until someone stopped them.

"Oh, great. They let the freak in," a woman groaned as soon as she spotted Sherlock and walked in front of his path, blocking the way.

Harley visibly winced when she heard the scathing remark. After recovering a moment later, she slowly peeked around Sherlock to see a tall, sharply dressed woman with mocha skin and dark frizzy hair. She had her arms crossed over her chest as she regarded Sherlock with a look of distaste.

"Sally Donovan, always a pleasure," Sherlock said in a dry, bored tone, showing an obvious mutual dislike towards her.

"What are you doing here?" the woman named Sally questioned— more like interrogated, really.

"To see Lestrade."

"Why?"

"He wants my help with a case."

"Why?"

Harley frowned, beginning to grow annoyed with the way the woman kept asking "Why" like some toddler who wasn't getting their way.

She wasn't alone, though. Sherlock rolled his eyes before he snapped back, "Because obviously you weren't any help with it."

Harley let out an involuntary snort, making her quickly slap her hand over her now grinning mouth to keep from making any more noise. Unfortunately, it was enough to get Donovan's attention. Sally looked past Sherlock, finally noticing Harley, and her eyes widened in surprise. "Who is _she_?" she demanded, looking between the detective and the girl incredulously.

Harley slowly removed her hand from her mouth, her grin long gone as she stared back nervously, staying behind Sherlock.

Sherlock glared at Sally as he responded, " _She_ is Harley Watson."

"What are you doing with her?"

"She's with me."

Sally scoffed in disbelief. "Yeah, right. What, did you kidnap her or something? Wouldn't surprise me if you did."

Harley frowned at the woman for a long moment, deciding that she found her quite intolerable. _First Dimmock, now this lady? Is everyone at the Yard always this snobbish?_ she wondered.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the accusation. "Yes, Sally, I kidnapped her and brought her to the police station of all places," he retorted. "Now, if you'll excuse us…" He pushed past her, and Harley made to follow him until Donovan stopped her. Harley quickly took a step back when the woman came a little too close into her personal space; she could practically smell the lavender perfume radiating off her.

"Wait, Watson? You're not related to his 'colleague', John Watson, are you?" Sally asked her, purposely stressing the word "colleague" in a somewhat condescending way.

Which was precisely why Harley didn't even bother to nod yes to her and merely hurried around her, catching back up with Sherlock without sparing a glimpse back. Sally huffed and crossed her arms, scowling at the two of them. "I see that your so-called 'high-functioning sociopathy' is already rubbing off on her," she called.

Harley flinched and looked down as she slowed to a stop, her lips pressing into a thin line when she heard one of the very familiar terms that she's heard from a few of the doctors and therapists that she's seen over the years of being looked at by them. Sociopathy. That brought back some unsavory memories. _"Displays mild sociopathic tendencies." "Has difficulty with socialization." "Shows lack of basic social skills."_ Basically, they all said her skills in socialness and working with others were next to nil, just because she couldn't talk. It was bad enough when she heard it from people who were considered proffesssionals, much less ordinary people. She sighed sadly.

She was suddenly pulled out of her thoughts by Sherlock's voice. "Oh, no, not at all, Sally," he said loudly, shooting the woman a sarcastic smile. "She just doesn't waste her time with idiots and those who have affairs."

Sally's face flushed furiously as her expression turned into a mixture of outrage and mortification. Sherlock turned away before she could even attempt to open her mouth and sputter out a comeback. He was about to reach for the office door, but was stopped upon feeling a tentative tug on his coat, and he turned to face Harley, who had not moved from her spot. Biting her lip nervously, she showed him her notebook in which she had written: _Would it be better if I just wait out here until you're done?_

"No," Sherlock said hardly a second after she did so, which made her wonder if he even read the whole sentence at all. Then, before she could make any more protests, he grabbed her hand and started pulling her along, earning himself a startled gasp from Harley as she tried not to drop her notebook (like the last time something like this happened). Without a word, he opened the door, and they entered the office.

As soon as they went in, a man sitting at a desk that had a name plate reading, _Gregory Lestrade, Detective Inspector,_ looked up from some paperwork that he was doing. Upon seeing Sherlock, he groaned, though half-heartedly. "Would it kill you to knock every once in a… _all the time_?" he asked in a lightly stressed tone.

"Yes," Sherlock said simply.

The man rolled his eyes, and he looked like he was about to say something else— until his eyes landed on Harley, who was still slightly behind Sherlock, his expression turning into one of surprise. But it wasn't exactly the same kind of surprised like everyone else's in the Yard so far. More like vastly curious. He stood from his desk. "Oh, who's this?"

Harley eyed the man warily as she stepped out little more so they could see each other better, taking in his appearance: slight tan skin, salt-and-pepper hair, brown eyes, and wearing a grey suit and black tie. He was handsome, Harley supposed, for someone his age. But it looked like he hadn't had a proper night's sleep in days. Being an officer of the law, though, that look was actually considered pretty normal, especially for someone of his rank.

"Lestrade, Harley. Harley, Lestrade," Sherlock breezed by way of introduction. "She doesn't speak, by the way."

Lestrade looked from Sherlock to Harley with vague recognition. "Ah, so this is Harley, Dr. Watson's niece; the girl who accompanied you two on that smuggling case. Inspector Dimmock told me all about it." He looked back to Sherlock with narrowed eyes. "Though, how you got Dimmock to clear you having a kid with you, when _you're_ barely allowed into our cases, is beyond me."

Sherlock scoffed. "Please. As if that rookie can dictate my methods."

 _Well, when you say it like that, it sounds a bit contrived,_ Harley thought drily.

"Riiight," Lestrade drawled just as drily, and Harley blinked.

She kept her guarded stature as she watched him step around his desk toward her. Then, to her upmost surprise, Lestrade reached a hand out to her with a friendly, almost humorous smile on his face. "Nice to finally match a face to the name. I gotta say, anyone who can put up with this guy and still be sane by the end of the day is all right in my book."

Harley blinked a few times, processing what he had said, mostly thinking something along the lines of, _He thinks I'm sane?_ But what surprised her most was that he seemed genuinely pleased to see her— although she still wasn't sure exactly how much of her he'd heard about from Dimmock (or anyone else in the Yard).

With a small smile back, she took his offered hand and shook it, nodding in greeting. Once that was done, Lestrade turned back to the consulting detective. "So, no John today?"

"I'm afraid that other responsibilities have left him otherwise occupied, and he can no longer make time as my assistant whenever he so pleases, but I believe Harley here will still do nicely," Sherlock replied.

At Lestrade's look of initial confusion at what the detective had said, Harley wrote in her notebook and held it up for him to read: _John got a job._

Lestrade nodded with an understanding, "Ah," at the translation, like he wasn't really all that surprised. Then he smirked at the both of them. "What, so being your assistant has become some sort of family business?"

 _No,_ Harley thought.

"Perhaps," Sherlock said.

Harley looked at him with a lifted eyebrow.

"All right, then, so what've you got for me on the Van Lou homicide?" Lestrade asked Sherlock, changing the subject.

"I'd hardly call it a homicide," Sherlock muttered.

The Detective Inspector sighed in exasperation. "Of course you wouldn't."

While the two men began to talk about the case, Harley found a chair nearby and went to sit down, figuring it best that she would leave them to it, since there wasn't much that she could really do. She watched them for a few moments, seeing how the consulting detective and the older Detective Inspector interacted with one another. As far as she could tell at the moment, their relationship seemed a little like the one Sherlock had with her uncle: they got along to a certain extent, but every once in a while Sherlock would say something that Lestrade didn't find amusing and would scold him— something that Harley had learned to find some entertainment in. However, Lestrade seemed to show a bit more familiarity with Sherlock's tendencies. They must've known each other for a long time. It also seemed like Lestrade tolerated Sherlock mostly because he needed him when the situation called for it. As mentioned earlier, he looked a bit exhausted. That happens a lot when you have a job as stressful as a detective for some people.

 _Must be desperate,_ Harley thought with a twinge of pity for the man who clearly loved his job, but looked like it was slowly draining his energy.

 _And yet, he was still capable of being kind to me, despite what he might've heard._

She smiled a little, deciding that she liked Lestrade.

She lowered her gaze, turning her attention away from their conversation, and opened up her notebook to write in while she waited. While they were at the park earlier, Sherlock had said some rather intriguing points when it came to the science of deduction and analysis as they played. Until today, she had no idea that there was so much more to observation than just seeing what your own eyes beheld. The way he spoke of it, it was like an art form, and it fascinated her, what the mind could uncover just by observing and putting the conclusions together based on what you already knew. So, she had decided to jot down some of the things he had told her so that she could easier remember them and further learn from them. The first thing she wrote down was what he had said about eliminating the impossible. That was a good one. And, of course, paying attention to even the tiniest of details, as a more basic one. She thought a little more, then remembered a rather interesting point that he had mentioned. She wrote:

 _"From a drop of water, a logician could infer the possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara without having seen or heard of one or the other…"_

She remembered him mentioning logic quite a lot. She also recalled him saying something about having his own website. She made a mental note to check that out when she had the time.

As she continued to write in her notes, she vaguely heard the door open as well as another person enter the room, but she was hardly paying attention to what was going on. It wasn't until the new person began to speak in a loud, boasting, nasally-sounding voice did she frown in annoyance, beginning to lose her focus. Then Sherlock's voice mixed in again, only his sounded as if he was becoming annoyed as well— _extremely_ annoyed.

But then, after a brief silence, whoever it was said loudly and dubiously, "And who the hell is _this_?!" and her focus was botched entirely. With a frustrated sigh, she lifted her gaze back up to see who had disturbed her, and found that it was a lanky-looking fellow with slightly greasy brown hair and a long nose that made him look more rat-like. He was currently staring at her with a somewhat disapproving frown, like she wasn't supposed to be here.

 _What's_ his _problem?_ she wondered. Then she lightly recoiled when her nose sniffed up the faint, unexpected aroma of lavender perfume coming from his direction. She made a face, wondering why she could smell a lady's perfume from a man. It was only a couple of seconds later that she remembered: she smelt the exact same perfume from that Donovan woman earlier. Also, didn't Sherlock say that she had…. _ohhhhhh._

Harley clamped her mouth shut, trying not to smile.

"None of your concern, Anderson," Sherlock answered him tersely.

The man, apparently named Anderson, looked between Sherlock and Harley for a moment, and his frown deepened at Sherlock as if he understood. "What, no John anymore? You found a prettier one to look at? A bit too young for you, isn't she?" he sneered.

At first, Harley was taken aback by the snide remark, but then her eyes narrowed dangerously as she clutched her pencil tight in her hand, scowling at him. _Okay, first of all: Eew. Second: Are you trying to say that John's not pretty? How dare you!_

"Actually, that's Harley," Lestrade explained, hoping to stop an argument that would eventually break out from this conversation, "She's Dr. Watson's niece."

"Hmph. I didn't think he'd be stupid enough to leave a child alone with the likes of you."

 _Oh. He did not._

Harley's glare intensified, her stormy gray eyes blazing; she could practically hear blood rushing through the veins in her head. If looks could kill…well, the idea was obvious. Sure, she didn't like being bullied— no one did— but when someone messed with her family, that was where she drew the line.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, seemingly unfazed. "What, no more stupid than you? Now, if you're finished blabbering like the idiot you are, you can turn in that primary schoolwork you call a forensics report and leave."

Ignoring him, Anderson turned back to Harley, intent on saying something, only to see her glowering sparks at him. His eyes flickered, suddenly looking uncomfortable— like he should be— whatever he was going to say getting lost on the way to his mouth. She may not be able to speak to him, but the way she looked at him the second they locked eyes made it perfectly clear:

 _Don't…EVER…insult my uncle…in front of me._

"Um…" Anderson started to say, but fell short of words, his mouth opening and closing for an awkward moment of silence between them. Then, after quickly glancing between the three of them, he turned and walked out with a disgruntled air. Harley watched him go, her scowl unwavering, and when he was finally gone, she gave a small but sharp nod at the doorway as if to say, "And stay out!"

Once that was over with, her face returned to normal and she turned back to her notebook, intent on finishing what she was doing before she was rudely interrupted, not even remotely aware of the two men currently staring at her; Lestrade with a look of astonishment, and Sherlock trying and failing at hiding his smirk. _Now let's see, where was I?_ she thought, skimming over her notes before she began to write again. A moment later, the two men resumed their earlier conversation.

A few minutes later, Harley closed her notebook, finished for the time being, and looked up in time to see Sherlock and Lestrade wrapping it up.

"I'm afraid that's all I got for the time being," said Lestrade, "but is there anything else you need?"

"Actually, there is something," Sherlock replied, suddenly looking thoughtful. "I need the record file from the killer cabbie case."

"What? Why?" Lestrade asked in confusion. "That was months ago."

"Yes, but there's something I'd like to go over again on the case," he said, glancing over at Harley. "A little experiment, if you will."

Harley raised an eyebrow. _Say what?_

Lestrade shook his head with a sigh, figuring that Sherlock would just keep on demanding it if he so much as said no (and most likely just go fetch it without him knowing anyway). "Fine, fine. You know where we keep our records."

Sherlock smirked. "Of course I do," he said before leaving the office for a few minutes in search of what he wanted, leaving Harley and the Detective Inspector alone.

Lestrade turned to Harley after a moment of silence, an apologetic smile on his face. "Um, sorry if Anderson made you uncomfortable back there. He doesn't exactly have the best...tact," he told her, quite hesitantly, as though he wasn't sure if it was okay to talk to her despite her condition.

 _Yeah, I can tell, and I'm not even a detective,_ she thought, returning the smile to let him know that no harm was truly done. Lestrade relaxed a bit.

"So…are you enjoying London so far?" he asked.

She nodded truthfully. London was amazing.

He grinned. "Good. I'm glad. And how long are you staying?"

She wrote: _For another week._

"Ah. Maybe we'll see each other again during that time— well, I mean, hopefully not when a crime is involved."

 _The way things run around here, I probably wouldn't count on it,_ she thought, but nodded in agreement anyway, smiling in amusement. He smiled back.

Sherlock returned very soon afterwards, a new case file in hand.

"Let me know if anything else comes up," Sherlock told Lestrade, "only the _interesting_ ones."

Lestrade rolled his eyes, but begrudgingly agreed to his request (or demand, depending on how you saw it. Most likely a demand. Definitely a demand. It was a demand).

"Let your uncle know I said hi," Lestrade said to Harley before they left.

Harley looked back, smiled, and gave him a quick thumbs up before exiting the office with Sherlock. Yes, Lestrade was definitely more tolerable than Dimmock, she concluded.

As they walked across the floor— this time completely ignoring the looks from the other officers as well as the glares from a certain Sergeant and forensics scientist— Sherlock suddenly turned to Harley. "By the way, I'm keeping you," he proclaimed. "Anyone who can get rid of Anderson just by looking at him is useful."

Harley merely stared at him for a long moment. _All right then, but you got 'till next week,_ she thought blandly before she readjusted the straps of her backpack, and they continued on in silence until they left Scotland Yard entirely.

* * *

 **A/N- Psh! Stupid Anderson. Doesn't he know that John Watson is the most beautiful creature to walk the earth?**

 **It was surprisingly a lot of fun writing this chapter. Which part? Every part. Especially regarding Lestrade. I think it's mostly because he reminds me so much of my dad. A bit gruff, works a lot and is tired from it most of the time, but that doesn't stop him from being a decent, loving person. If anything, his hard work just proves how much he cares.**

 **Long story short: Lestrade needs more love.**

 **One more thing: I want to say a ginormous thank you to all you darling readers out there. Last chapter, I got a good few messages telling me about how they've been through what I have (as well as Harley), regarding anxiety and depression. I gotta say, it really touched me to the heart to confide with you guys. It's great to know that anxiety and depression is being taken more seriously these days, and people are receiving more help for it. It's just wonderful. And to those who still have quite a way to go, stay strong! You'll get through this!**

 **So thank you, you awesome reading people you. And good night! :)**


	20. The Mute and the Pathologist

**A/N- *pops up from under desk* HELLO!**

 **Back for more already, are we? Well, all right then! On to more Sherlock and Harley bonding time!** **And basically Harley taking her time to meet most, if not all, of the recurring characters along the way.**

 **Disclaimer: I only own my OC.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

Sherlock had been texting on his mobile phone since they rode the lift down to the ground floor of Scotland Yard. Each time his phone bleeped with a new message from whomever he was texting, he would frown in annoyance before texting back. It wasn't until they had stepped outside and reached the street did he finally put his phone away and look up. He met Harley's curious gaze.

"Just texting an…acquaintance of mine," Sherlock explained, choosing his description carefully. "Works at St. Bart's. She's supposed to have something for me by this afternoon, but it's not quite ready yet."

Harley's curiosity rose, wondering what this person was going to have for him. She figured she was going to find out soon enough when they came to it. However, if the clock on her phone was correct, it was already a little past two-thirty in the afternoon. The day was already more than half over.

"It's also occurred to me that you haven't eaten anything all day; let alone not having eaten properly in the past few days. You must be hungry," Sherlock continued, making her look back up, "So I figured in the meantime, we could get something to eat while we wait."

She was just in the process of shaking her head in protest— that she really wasn't that hungry— until her stomach decided that it was the perfect time to make a surprise guest appearance by noisily disagreeing with her. She froze right on the spot, mortified. Then she glanced up to see Sherlock looking at her with that smug face, showing that he'd heard it as well.

"I do believe you're the only person I know whose stomach talks more than your mouth," he said.

She glared at him before looking away with a pout. _Oh, shut up._

"Don't be like that. You've lost two pounds in just three days. That's not healthy for someone your age."

Her head swiveled back to look at him, an eyebrow raised, as he proceeded to stop a cab for them. He could also tell someone's weight change just by looking at them? _That's….no, that's where it gets too far-fetched._

Still, though, she supposed that it wouldn't hurt to at least try to consume something— at least, try again. She was feeling somewhat better than she has been in the last few days, after all. Hopefully, she'll be more successful this time.

Her expression softening a bit, she sighed in defeat and nodded fine.

They ended up going back in the direction they came from, only instead of returning to Baker Street, they pulled up a few minutes away from there at Northumberland Street. They walked for a minute before approaching a small, but nice-looking restaurant. Harley looked up at the green banner above. _Angelo's Italian Restaurant._

Harley smiled. Italian was her favorite type of food.

As soon as they entered the restaurant, she was instantly hit with the heavenly smell of pasta, sauces, bread, and other various foods that wafted around her. Her stomach felt like it was trying to digest itself as it rumbled once more with longing. _Shut up, shut up, shut up._

When they stepped in, a server near the door who clearly knew Sherlock hurried to an empty table right at the front window and took the _reserved_ sign off, offering it to them. Sherlock thanked him as they took a seat, shrugging off their coats and scarves. Harley looked around them after settling. The restaurant was darkly lit, warm, and quiet— with only four other tables occupied on the farther side of the long room. It felt inviting, and Harley didn't feel nearly as tense as she'd been at the Yard. She liked it.

Then, hardly a minute later, a stout, middle-aged man with a beard and long hair tied back in a ponytail came over to their table with menus in hand, a huge smile on his face.

"Sherlock! Good to see you again!" he cried joyously, nearly startling Harley straight out of her seat.

"Afternoon, Angelo," Sherlock greeted, shaking hands with him.

"And who's this lovely young lady?" Angelo asked, turning to Harley. He studied her for a moment, then Sherlock with a grin. "You never told me that you had a…"

"This is Harley," Sherlock explained, "John's niece."

Angelo's grin widened. "Ah, that nice young man you were with last time. How are things between you two anyway?"

At that question and its context, Harley briefly looked out the window with a look of mild exasperation. _Unbelievable. Does_ everyone _think John and Sherlock are a couple?_

And the fact that Sherlock had replied casually that John was busy working at the clinic but doing well, not even denying anything, didn't exactly make it any better.

Angelo put down menus in front of both of them. "Have anything you want, on the house. I still owe you."

When the owner left so that they could decide, Harley turned questioningly to Sherlock, who was staring out the window. She opened up to a fresh page in her book, wrote, and slid it across the table toward him, getting his attention:

 _He owes you?_

"More or less," he answered. "Three years ago, he was accused of triple homicide. I was able to help out by proving to Lestrade that Angelo was in a completely different part of town at the time…house-breaking."

Harley couldn't help but smile. _So he still went to prison,_ she scribbled.

"Yes, but at least it wasn't for something he didn't commit."

After a few minutes of silence, looking over the menu, a server came to their table and asked what they wanted. When he looked at Harley expectantly, waiting for her to order, she was at a loss at first, unsure what to do. But then Sherlock spoke up, saying that she'd have the chicken parmesan with pasta, knowing that was what she wanted because he noticed her eyes lingering on that order the longest. Harley flashed him a quick, grateful smile when the server left them alone again, before lowering her gaze to the table, feeling her cheeks grow warm. That was one of the huge setbacks of being mute: being in public places like restaurants, stores, etcetera, and trying to get your point across with people who aren't used to those who don't speak. When she was with John or her mother, it wasn't so bad, because at least they understood how she communicated. But still, it was a little embarrassing when others had to talk on her behalf.

The two of them sat in silence, Sherlock going back to staring contemplatively out the window, and Harley at her notebook in front of her. After only a little while, though, Sherlock turned back to her. "That wasn't the first time someone referred to you as a sociopath, wasn't it?"

Harley blinked and looked up at him in surprise.

"Back at the Yard, with Sergeant Donovan," Sherlock clarified. "I saw the way you reacted when she called you a sociopath."

When he said it that way, it seemed somewhat obvious; she didn't exactly try to hide it when it occurred, but that still didn't stop her heart from lurching painfully in her chest from the reminder. Swallowing, she nodded tightly.

"Psychiatrists?"

She nodded again, lowering her gaze again with a scowl. She really didn't want to get into this— not again.

"And your teachers and counselor?"

Her scowl deepened. She didn't bother to respond, though he might've taken that as a yes.

"You don't agree with any of them, though."

She pressed her lips into a thin line, hands clenching together.

"Why?"

Her hands began to shake.

"Harley…"

In that moment, it felt like something inside her had snapped. Drawing in a deep breath, she quickly scrawled in her book, pressing the pencil lead against the paper with a little too much force than necessary. Then she shoved it across to him:

 _Do you really want to know why? It's because contrary to what other people think, I do have a conscience. But I also don't like putting myself out for everyone to see. They think that just because I don't talk to anyone, or laugh, or cry, or show ANY of my emotions as much as the other kids, that I'm some kind of mental case that doesn't feel anything— a sociopath, sometimes even a psychopath. But I'm neither of those things._ _I'm just not like them._

She may have gone a little overboard when she wrote that— may have let her frustration get the better of her— but if she was being perfectly honest with herself, it felt quite good to have that out. After years of constantly being told what she was, _who_ she was, it was nice to let her own opinion be known— relieving, even. She braced herself for whatever the consulting detective had to say about it.

Surprisingly, though, he was quiet for a long time, moving his gaze from her notebook to the window, his face expressionless yet intense at the same time, if that was possible. When he didn't respond, Harley exhaled heavily, finally feeling the weight of her actions; that she had just revealed something extremely personal to her uncle's flatmate— someone she's only known for a week. She leaned forward and rested her elbows on the table, burying her face in her hands. _What did I just do?_

"You're right."

Harley slowly lifted her head from her hands, gazing up at Sherlock, who had turned back to her. "You're right, you're not. As a high-functioning sociopath myself, I would know." He lightly frowned for a second. "Of course, Donovan, Anderson, and most of the other Yarders take pride into diagnosing me as a psychopath. Then again…" his lips gradually turned up into a smile, "…they're all idiots. What do they know?"

Her face softening, Harley took her notebook back and hesitantly wrote: _Absolutely nothing?_

He threw his head back and laughed deeply. "Obviously."

She struggled to smile along with him, then looked away and sniffed, rubbing the long sleeve of her jumper across her eyes. For a brief second, Sherlock's eyes flashed with concern, but as soon as it appeared, it vanished, replaced with pensiveness. A moment later, he asked, "Would you like to know how I was able to prove Angelo's sort-of innocence?"

Harley looked at him for a moment, until she nodded lightly, a small smile on her lips.

And so Sherlock launched into the story of when the restaurant owner had called upon him in his hour of desperate need, having heard of his line of work from a mutual acquaintance. After hearing his defense, Sherlock could infer that Angelo wasn't being entirely honest and not giving the whole story, so he went digging around and found that the shoeprint left behind at the crime scene, while the same size as Angelo's, did not quite match his gait (very much like what they'd talked about with the woman at Regent's Park earlier), and had residue in the soil from the area that Angelo had never been anywhere near at the time of the murders. Furthermore, Sherlock had found the tools that the man had used to break into six different homes, as well as some of the stolen property. A good alibi against the triple murder, but a bad one for the house-breaking. It was just enough for Sherlock to get on the chase for the _real_ murderer, which he managed to find within the same day.

Harley listened intently throughout his story, taking in all the details. Sometimes, when he allowed it, she would write down questions regarding the case about something she didn't quite understand, and he would answer her.

 _So now he gives you free food for life?_ Harley wrote when he was finished. _That's awesome._

Sherlock smirked a little. "I suppose so."

Shortly afterwards, the server came back with their steaming hot meals. "Enjoy," he said before leaving them to it. Harley stared down at her food, taking in its enticing scent and appearance. _Well, stomach's not turning so far. That's good,_ she mused. She took her fork, got a small piece of her chicken and pasta, and, closing her eyes, she took a cautious bite. Three seconds later, she reopened her eyes wide.

 _Oh, my God._

She proceeded to eat her meal, only this time much more heartily, her worn-down body finally catching up to her need for energy— and also because the food tasted like heaven. Not that she really knew what heaven tasted like, but if it did have a flavor, it'd be Angelo's food.

For a while, there was silence between the two save for the clatter of forks against their plates. Until sometime later, Sherlock's phone bleeped from his pocket, notifying him of a new message. He took it out, read it for a few seconds, then looked up with an excited glint in his eyes. "Are you finished?" he asked her, already picking up his coat and scarf.

She nodded yes. She'd managed to eat more than half of her meal, but she was already full and satisfied that she couldn't eat another bite, plus she didn't want to keep from whatever else he had planned. And so they got up, put their coats back on and made to head out.

But not before Harley quickly pulled out a ten-pound note from her bag and slipped it under the salt-shaker, feeling like she had to at least give the kind restaurant owner some compensation for the delicious meal, despite the favor he owed.

After about ten minutes of riding in a cab, they arrived at St. Bartholomew's Hospital. Harley stared up at the vast, concrete building before her. Then she took a deep breath and reluctantly followed Sherlock inside.

Harley wasn't a huge fan of hospitals— particularly, the psych ward part of them. She's been to a few in the past six years of her life, when her mother could afford to take her to one, and especially when other adults grew annoyingly concerned. Not to say that they made her feel utterly miserable or like she was a prisoner or anything like that. Depressed, maybe, but not miserable. They weren't like those dirty insane asylums in the movies where the doctors end up crazier than the patients themselves. They actually weren't that bad, and the majority of the time she was there, they were more like short "observational periods". Most of the people she's met over the years were actually okay and nice— whether they were other fellow patients or doctors— and were merely doing their jobs. In fact, they found her quite fascinating. In other words, they observed her. Of course, they tried to figure out why she didn't talk, but mostly they were just making sure that she wasn't going to hurt herself in any way.

Still, that didn't stop her from feeling depressed by the mere fact that she was committed at all. To her, it was just a reminder that she had a problem— that she _was_ a problem. A problem that even she had yet to solve for herself.

When they stepped into the hospital, Harley looked around them as she tried to keep up, taking in her surroundings with the familiar antiseptic-like smell and bright setting. Harley knew quite a bit about St. Bart's hospital, and not just informational things, like how it was the oldest hospital in Europe being almost nine-hundred years old. She also knew that it was her uncle's alma mater where he studied medicine before transferring to King's College and then the Royal Army Medical Corps, and that it was where he first met Sherlock months prior to the present. It seemed that even though this was only her first visit, it was like the place had already held some sort of sentimentality toward her— or at least, the people she was acquainted with.

She followed Sherlock for what seemed like ages until they finally turned a corner and entered what looked like a large, chemical laboratory that was empty except for a petite woman wearing a white lab coat over a colorful striped jumper and trousers; her long, brunette hair tied back into a high ponytail. She was startled by their entrance, her head snapping up from the clipboard she was writing on. But upon seeing Sherlock, she instantly put on a friendly smile.

And was it just Harley, or was she also blushing?

"Hi, Sherlock," the woman greeted him with a sweet, but nervous-sounding voice. Then she noticed Harley and somehow became even more nervous, though she kept her bright smile. "Um, who's this?"

"Harley, my flatmate's niece. He's busy, so she's with me for the day," Sherlock replied as they approached her. "She's a mute, and a huge cynic, but she's endurable enough."

Rolling her eyes, but smirking nonetheless, Harley wrote in her notebook and showed it to the woman— who, according to her ID tag, was Dr. Molly Hooper:

 _I'd resent that if it wasn't so true. Nice to meet you._

Her message only seemed to confuse Molly more. She looked over to Sherlock in disbelief. "So, technically you're…babysitting?"

"Don't be absurd, Molly. If anything, I'm _educating_ ," Sherlock said.

 _Whatever you say, Holmes-Senpai,_ Harley thought sarcastically.

"So, have you got it?" Sherlock asked, quickly changing the subject.

Molly nodded, quickly walking over to a large, stainless steel freezer. She reached out, but stopped suddenly, her hand on the handle. She turned to the two of them uncertainly. "Um…are you sure it's all right, you know…with her here? How old is she?"

"She's fine. She's already seen two fresh cadavers in the last week alone."

Harley stared ahead awkwardly. _I've…got nothing for that._

At first, Molly looked horrified for the girl, but when Harley smiled softly in reassurance, she relaxed a little, though she still came off as nervous and unsure. She hesitantly opened the freezer, and Harley and Sherlock stepped closer to see something Harley wasn't really expecting, though she suspected it was going to be something along the lines. It was a head— an actual, human head perched on a tray in the freezer, severed from its body from the bottom of the neck up; eyes closed, lips slightly parted, skin white and a bit frosted from the low temperature. His dark grey hair was combed back neatly, though.

It took Harley more than a moment to get used to what she was looking at, while also swallowing down the chicken parmesan that threatened to come back up.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed at the head, his nose sniffing sharply. "How fresh?"

"Just in," replied Molly. "Fifty-nine, natural causes."

Harley stared at the head curiously, then tugged on Molly's lab coat to get her attention.

 _Where's the rest of him? I'm just wondering,_ she wrote.

"Oh— well, usually, in these cases, they get cremated," Molly explained. "So his head may be a bit chilly now, but don't worry, the rest of him is quite toasty." She laughed lightly.

"Don't make jokes, Molly," Sherlock drawled, but before he could finish his sentence, Harley let out a soft snort as she grinned, shoulders shaking a little. She was liking this woman more and more. She wrote: _Good one._

Molly smiled back, her expression a mixture of embarrassment at Sherlock's comment, but also relief that Harley wasn't put off by her quip. Meanwhile, Sherlock glanced over and quirked an eyebrow at the girl's reaction, but then shook his head before he carefully took the head out, still on the tray, placing it on one of the lab tables.

"So, what's the experiment this time?" Molly asked.

"Measuring the coagulation of saliva after death," he answered offhandedly, already taking out latex gloves from a drawer, throwing a pair to an unsuspecting Harley, and then getting out a pair of pliers. Glancing from Sherlock to Molly, Harley hesitantly put on the gloves and came up next to the detective, sitting on the high stool beside him.

Then Sherlock handed her the pliers. "Open his mouth. Make sure you have a firm grip on his cranium so he doesn't fall over."

 _Oh,_ _g_ _reat._

Rolling up her sleeves and doing what he said to keep the head upright, she slowly and gradually pried open the lips. She and Sherlock leaned closer to get a better look inside the mouth, Harley trying to block out the already decaying smell.

"Excellent! Saliva is still in full liquid form," Sherlock said with way too much enthusiasm for a man examining a disembodied head. He pulled out his own notepad and immediately started jotting down notes. Harley didn't see what he was writing down though— too busy trying to keep her distance from the head while still keeping her hold on it. _John would definitely kill me if he knew what I was doing right now. Probably mount my head right next to it._

It wasn't until a minute later (it felt like an hour) that Sherlock finally let her release the head. "Best results are to check for any changes every two hours, at the minimum. Molly, the cooler?" He turned toward the doctor expectantly.

"Oh, um, just over there. You can't miss it. It's already prepared," Molly informed, smiling, and he went to fetch it.

After Harley carefully removed her gloves and disposed of them, she approached Molly with her notebook in tow.

 _If you don't mind my asking, what exactly do you do?_ She had written down, staring at the woman with interest.

"Well, I'm a pathologist," Molly answered. "Pathology is the study of human diseases, and identifying them through examining tissue, organs, and other bodily fluids."

Harley smiled. She knew what pathology was, having read about it, but she had never met an expert on the subject before— not that she had many opportunities to meet one before now, of course. She quickly scrawled:

 _So you basically look at a dead body, and you're able to know the cause of its death. That's amazing._

Molly beamed coyly. "Pretty much, yes. The best part, in my opinion, is that my patients never complain at all."

Harley's smile spread into an amused grin before writing: _Stop, you're killing me. I might end up being your next patient._

Molly giggled, to Harley's pleasure. Harley really liked Molly Hooper. She was sweet and nice, but also had a morbid sense of humor— one that showed that she's worked around dead people long enough to make jokes out of it. Harley found that quite comical. That, and she was a pathologist— a difficult field in science and biology that Harley didn't think a lot of women would even be expected to be interested in. _Lovely_ and _intelligent. I wouldn't be surprised if men were flocking toward her daily,_ Harley mused. Though, she couldn't help but notice that Molly seemed to only have eyes for the consulting detective, based on how the woman would often times glance toward him with a somewhat dreamy smile, her cheeks flushed a shade of pink.

Harley smirked knowingly. _I may be a nutcase, but I know a crush when I see one._

And the only one who didn't seem to notice it was Sherlock himself. Some master of observation he was.

After thanking the pathologist via her notebook, she went back to where Sherlock was, who just finished up placing the head in the cooler.

 _So, we're taking it back to the flat?_ She enquired once she had his attention.

"Unless you'd rather spend the next twenty-four hours or more here," he said. "You don't mind, do you?"

She only needed to think about it for a second before she shrugged. She wrote: _If the Disney Company can keep Walt's head in their freezer, I'm sure you can keep Stephano in yours, too._

Sherlock stared at her message blankly for five whole seconds after reading. "That's a myth," he deadpanned.

 _How would you know?_

Sherlock didn't bother to answer that. Instead, he changed the subject by questioning, "Also, who's Stephano?"

She inclined her head toward the cooler.

"Why?"

 _He just looks like a Stephano._

Sherlock shook his head disdainfully. "Preposterous." He turned to pick up the cooler, but Harley could've sworn she heard him mutter under his breath, "He clearly looks more like a Douglas."

She smirked. Then she grabbed onto the other end of the cooler's handle so that he wouldn't have to carry it by himself, both of them holding it between them. Sherlock looked at her, and upon seeing her small smile, the corner of his lips twitched up for a mere second before looking away, clearing his throat. They started to walk toward the exit with the cooler in tow. Harley waved goodbye to Molly, who waved back before gazing at Sherlock.

"Bye, Sherlock," she said sweetly.

 _Oh, man, she's got it bad,_ Harley thought, ducking her head to hide her smile.

Sherlock, on the other hand, merely hummed in response, hardly sparing her a glimpse as they left the lab and started down the hall toward the exit.

Harley forced down her growing grin with difficulty. _And he hasn't got it at all. Maybe if I…_

She mentally shook the mere thought out of her head. _Nah, I'm not going anywhere near this one. They're on their own here._

And she had a feeling that it was probably better that way.

* * *

 **A/N- Harley: _'Does_ everyone _think John and Sherlock are a couple?!'_**

 **Me: "Yes. Yes, they do."**

 **Harley: _*Internal screaming*_**

 **I believe that for the sake of whatever's left of Harley's sanity, we steer her clear from the Johnlock side of the internet. What say you?**

 **I've always wondered what the scene with Sherlock getting that severed head at the beginning of _The Great Game_ would be like. So I decided to come up with my own bit with Harley. It ****basically** **ended up being filled with jokes about death (shut up, they're hilarious!)**

 **Also, have I ever mentioned how much I freaking adore Molly Hooper? No? Well, then. I love her, I love her, I LOVE HER! She's a badass, and no one can tell me otherwise! She knows crap about dead people, she helped fake Sherlock's death, and, AND: she dated the world's most dangerous criminal mastermind, got him to watch _Glee_ , dumped his ass, and lived to tell the tale! If that's not badass, I don't know what is!**

 **And yes, often times, you can find me onboard the occasional Sherlolly ship. It ain't here, though. Sorry.**


	21. A Study in Light-ish Red

**A/N- *In vampire voice* "Good evening! Wait, it _is_ evening, right? What, no?!" *shrivels in sunlight***

 **Sorry, I meant to have this chapter finished and uploaded a couple of days ago, but something came up. We've recently welcomed a new member into our family: a giant newfoundland pup. We've dubbed her BB (short for Black Beauty), and she certainly is a beauty, and so cuddly and lovable. The thing is, though, she's only ten months old and already weighs over a hundred pounds...and she's just going to get bigger! What have we gotten ourselves into?** **We didn't get a dog, we got a BEAR!**

 **Nevertheless, I hope the fact that this is the longest chapter yet makes up for my tardiness. Thirteen freaking pages long, and that's not with double spacing, bitches!**

 **TRIGGER WARNING: There be fluff ahead. Tread lightly.**

 **Disclaimer: _Sherlock_ belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. I only own my OC.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

Harley was so sure that someone would stop them and question them about the not-so-inconspicuous cooler that they were carrying outside in the streets, as well as the cabbie that drove them back to 221 Baker Street. But no one seemed to be all that interested. They managed to make it back to Baker Street with no one bothering them, thank goodness. If someone did, and saw the decapitated head, no doubt they'd get the idea that she and Sherlock were a couple of psychotic cannibals and land them in a prison cell.

Not that she'd blame them; she'd get that idea as well.

It was also lucky of them that Mrs. Hudson was out when they returned to the flat. It wouldn't do for her to get a heart attack from them.

Harley helped Sherlock take the cooler upstairs and into the kitchen, laying it down in front of the refrigerator. Then she left him to put the head in its rightful place and headed to the living room, taking off her coat, scarf and backpack; she was not touching it again, not with her bare hands, at least.

Sherlock joined her a few minutes later. When he entered, she held up a message:

 _Is Stephano all settled and comfortable?_

"Douglas," Sherlock mumbled under his breath before raising his voice back to normal, hanging his coat and scarf on the door hanger, "Yes. Just bear it in mind when you open the fridge to get something."

 _Right. Open, bid him hello, get food, then close. Also, we should introduce him to Billy sometime._

He smirked in amusement. "Perhaps when they start to look more like each other."

She smirked back. _Ohhh, slick,_ she thought.

Several seconds passed, in which Harley looked out the window absentmindedly, the sky outside slowly beginning to darken into the early evening. When she turned back, intent on asking him what he wanted to do now, she found him moving the coffee table over a bit so that there was more space in the sitting room. Then he took out the case file that he had acquired from Scotland Yard earlier, opening it and spreading the papers and pictures out on the floor.

Harley watched him as he sat down on the floor and spread out the files more into a more organized pattern. Then she hesitantly approached him and sat down cross-legged across from him, looking over the pictures and reports until he was finished consolidating them.

Harley sent him a puzzled look when he lifted his gaze up to meet hers.

"This was the first case your uncle and I took on together," he explained. "I assume he's already told you what he could about it."

She glanced at the pictures once more before taking her notebook to answer:

 _He wrote it all on his blog. He's titled it, 'A Study in Pink.'_

Sherlock's expression suddenly hardened. "Ah, yes. I've recently skimmed over that entry," he said in an annoyed tone, stressing the word "entry" spitefully. "And I'd hardly say that he wrote _it all_ , as you've worded it."

Harley's eyebrows rose into her bangs, wondering why he didn't sound so enthralled by his flatmate's blog regarding their first case.

"What I do is an exact science, and should always be treated as such," he continued, his tone gradually going into rant-mode. "Crime is common, but logic is rare. So it would be more prudent to dwell more on the logic rather than just the crime itself. And John…he's written the experience out not like the sequence of lectures like they're supposed to be, but like some kind of romantic adventure in a children's storybook. There was barely any focus on my analytical reasoning— where all the focus should've been on; the how or the why behind the events."

 _Whoa, whoa, okay. Calm down there, buddy,_ Harley thought when it looked like he was finally finished, an astonished expression on her face. This was the first time she's seen him get so riled up about something— something that didn't directly involve a murder. But she didn't think something like a blog would succeed in doing so. She's read her uncle's blog herself, and she didn't think it was _that_ bad. A few grammatical errors here and there, maybe, and perhaps she would've liked for him to go into a little more depth on the cases whereas it focused more on the eccentric nature of Sherlock himself, but she thought it was an interesting enough read.

At the same time, though, she could also somewhat understand where Sherlock was coming from. This was a man who considered his work an art form of some kind, a logical way of thinking and using that gift to solve crimes. She supposed she'd feel disappointed too if her achievements were degraded more into the format of a series of tales.

With a small, but sympathetic smile, she wrote in her notebook before passing it to the detective:

 _I'm afraid that that's how literature and storytelling works these days. In fact, that's how it's been since practically the beginning of time. People will always romanticize things in order to pull in an audience. If John did post your cases into the way you wanted them to be, do you really think that the general public would wholly understand? The public who couldn't tell whether a man was left-handed by the layout of his apartment, or that a banker has flown around the world twice in a month by his watch? No, they wouldn't be interested in analytical reasoning. They just want an entertaining story about a quirky guy who solves mysteries and catches bad guys with his companion. It's a sad truth, but a truth nonetheless._

Once Sherlock had finished reading her explanation, he looked up at her with that scrutinizing look that she's seen a couple of times before, like he was looking at a puzzle instead of a person. She merely sat there, staring back, waiting for his reply.

After a long moment of silence, he finally spoke up. "You…you think I'm _quirky_?"

At that question, Harley looked at him in the same way that she always looked at someone who would say something completely idiotic. _Really? That's what you got out of all that? REALLY?!_

Exhaling through her nose heavily, she took her notebook back only to scribble a quick question: _Am I wrong?_

"Well, no, but…" Sherlock, for once, seemed at a loss for words.

Harley ran a hand down her face, lifting her head up toward the ceiling tiredly. _This. This is why I don't talk to people._

"But yes, unfortunately, I do see your point," Sherlock said, his expression almost pained. "There are only so few people who are genuinely interested in the work." Then he looked at her with a small frown. "That's quite…insightful of you, Harley."

She smiled and shrugged. _I'm well-read, remember? In a way, that makes me dangerous,_ she wrote.

He scoffed at her response, though he was smiling back a bit.

Then Harley lowered her gaze back to the pictures, studying them closely. She noticed the particular photos of a blonde woman lying face-down on a dirty wooden floor, wearing nothing but a pink dress with a pink coat and pink shoes, as well as pictures of a pink mobile phone and a pink suitcase that was open. Now Harley knew how John came up with the title. _Scarlet would've been more her color,_ she mentally observed. Then she returned her gaze to the consulting detective questioningly, pointing at the papers between them.

"Like I said, you've only heard about the case from John's point of view— however limited that is," he muttered that last part, and Harley frowned at him before he continued, "I figured you'd want to know all the details of the case."

Her face brightened as she nodded with eagerness, getting more comfortable as he began, using the papers as a sort of visual aid.

He started off by pointing out that the pink lady, named Jennifer Wilson, wasn't actually the first victim, but the fourth in a string of what looked like serial suicides— all of them found in places they wouldn't normally be found in and having died of poison and asphyxiation. He told her how he was able to tell that Jennifer was a serial adulterer with a media job who had flown in from Cardiff from her wedding band— that it was dirty on the outside but clean on the inside proving she regularly removed it— from her attire, and from the state of her clothes as well with the mud splattered on the back of her legs. He knew about her suitcase, where he found it, and how the murderer had her phone, which was actually planted onto him by the victim and had most of her password scratched into the floorboard at the crime scene: "RACHE", only it was Rachel, the name of her stillborn daughter. He told her about their stakeout at Angelo's, how they chased the taxi across the city, only to find out later that it wasn't the passenger— it was the cabbie himself. He told her about the cabbie killer— how he took Sherlock to a further education college and had him play the same puzzle he made the other victims play: to select one of two bottles of identical pills, one harmless and the other poison, and consume the pills, while he took the other one; or threaten to shoot them (which ended up being a fake novelty lighter). But then Sherlock had deduced that the killer was an estranged father dying of a brain aneurysm.

 _So he went on a killing spree because he was going to die anyway?_ Harley questioned.

"No," Sherlock answered. "Remember what I said about him being an estranged father? Even though he couldn't see his children, he still cared for them deeply. It was all revolved around them."

Harley's eyebrows scrunched together, trying to understand what that meant, but drawing up a blank. Why would a taxi driver kill all those people for his children?

"Here's a hint: Taxi drivers don't get an impressive salary for cab fare alone," said Sherlock.

Harley's eyes widened slightly after a moment of thinking. She wrote: _Someone was paying him to do it?_

Sherlock nodded. "It turned out that he had a sponsor. For every person that he killed, money would go toward his children."

 _But who would sponsor a serial killer?_

Sherlock smirked. "That's exactly what I said. Who, indeed? But apparently, this sponsor of his was also a 'fan' of mine. Warned him about me."

Then Harley recalled one of the final paragraphs of her uncle's entry on the case— about how right before the killer had died, he said a name. A name of someone— or something— that had helped him with his serial killings. With diffident hands, she wrote:

 _Moriarty?_

At first, Sherlock was silent, a somewhat conflicted look on his face. Then, carefully, he replied, "Yes."

 _What do you think it means?_

"Haven't the faintest."

Then he returned his gaze to the photographs, subtly dropping the matter and going back to another topic. "There is one thing regarding the case that, I must admit, still kind of escapes me," he said, picking up two pictures and placing them in front of Harley. They each were of a clear bottle that had a single, large capsule pill in it.

"Two bottles, two pills. Both completely identical so as not to tell which one was harmless and which one would kill you," Sherlock explained.

Harley gazed down at the pictures with a contemplative frown. She had a feeling that she's seen something like this before— the setup Sherlock had been put in— but couldn't quite recall from where.

"I want you to show me which one you think is the good pill, and which one is the bad one."

She glanced up at him skeptically. _You want me to what?_

"Just out of curiosity. If you were there, which would you have chosen? Or what would you have done?"

She wrote: _How do I know these aren't just two pictures of the same pill?_

He smiled deviously. "You don't."

Her eyes narrowed. She was beginning to understand why John found him annoying sometimes.

"Whichever one you think is poisonous, move it to the left side. Harmless one to the right. Take your time in figuring it out…but quite quickly," he said.

 _Why, are you in some sort of hurry?_ she thought snarkily, but decided against making it known. Instead, she sighed and moved her focus back on the two photos before her. Her eyes moved from picture to picture, studying the two pills closely. If Sherlock couldn't tell the difference, what were the chances she could?

 _But why does this look so familiar?_ She kept asking herself. She closed her eyes, thinking long and hard. Two pills, both look the same in every way. The killer had claimed that one was good and one was bad. He'd played the game four times with different people, and somehow, he managed to win every single time. If Harley believed in such a thing as luck, she'd think that he was extremely so. But she didn't, so no. Sherlock had mentioned that the killer thought he was a proper genius, too, that he knew how people thought. _Not genius enough to cover his tracks properly, apparently._ No, that wasn't it. He was just arrogant. There had to have been some other way he was able to survive all those times, how he could've easily won the battle of wits with not much to it.

Then it hit her. _Battle of wits._

She opened her eyes and smiled. _Got it._

With determination, she took both of the photographs and placed them to the left, nodding with finality. While Sherlock took in her theory, she wrote down a small explanation and showed it to him when he was ready:

 _Both of them were bad. The killer had gradually built up immunity to the poison long before. So no matter which pill the victim chose, he would live, and everyone else would die._

There was a long, heavy silence in the entire flat. After a minute or two, it seemed that Sherlock wasn't truly looking at her hypothesis anymore, but was instead absorbed into his own thoughts.

After what felt like eternity, he finally came back to himself. "Brilliant," he breathed, still staring at the pictures and notebook. "Of course. With him, it would've been easy enough to do, with the unlimited supply he was being provided with from his 'sponsor' and the time on his hands, and if it went wrong, he would've had an antidote on the side to help cultivate resistance to the effects."

Harley smiled a little, happy to help him come to terms with the problem.

Then Sherlock raised his head back up, looking at her. "How did you come to that conclusion?"

Her smile widening a bit, she took her book back and wrote: _Everyone knows that you never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line._

Then, after a brief pause, she added underneath: _And also to never get involved in a land war in Asia._

Sherlock frowned, obviously confused. "What does a war in Asia have to do with— with _anything_?" he asked incredulously. "And he wasn't even close to being of Sicilian origin. If anything, he was cockney."

Harley stared at him, her smile fading. _He doesn't know,_ she realized. _Oh, my God, he doesn't know. No wonder he almost died._

Without a single response or sign, Harley stood up and went over to the table. Sherlock followed her with his eyes, still confused. She opened up John's laptop, logged in (poor guy still hasn't changed the password), and instantly went online to YouTube.

After finding a video of the right scene she had in mind, she beckoned for Sherlock come over and see. Wordlessly, Sherlock complied. She played the clip— the battle of wits scene from the film, _The Princess Bride_.

When the video ended a few minutes later, Sherlock said nothing at first, not looking as amused as Harley thought he would. "Why does it not surprise me that you got it from a fantasy comedy?" he said.

 _So you have heard of this movie?_ She wrote.

"I am aware of it, yes."

 _Right, then. Sometime soon, you, John, and I are sitting down to watch this. All of it._

Sherlock sighed. "First John with those Bond movies. Now you."

Harley half-smiled. John trying to get Sherlock to watch James Bond wasn't a surprise to her either. Her uncle was crazy about those movies. She, on the other hand, was personally more of the Indiana Jones type.

They returned to the case file on the floor. _So, after you discovered the killer's true motives, someone shot him and killed him?_ she enquired.

"Yes. Of course, a man like him, he'd be bound to have enemies. Not much of a surprise."

 _Did you or the Yard ever find the person who did it?_

"No. Vanished without a trace. Could be anywhere by now."

There was something about the way he answered so quickly and with barely a hint of disappointment that Harley found a bit suspicious, but decided not to go any further into it, believing it was probably nothing.

 _Oh, well. At least you still stopped a serial killer. And you've definitely given me more insight about the case; very intriguing and thought-provoking. Thank you,_ she wrote.

Sherlock smiled— not his smug one, but a pure, genuine smile. "You're welcome."

She smiled back. Then she helped him gather up the papers and photographs from the floor and put them back in the folder.

"Have you read any of your uncle's more recent posts on his blog?" Sherlock asked her after they stood from the floor.

She shook her head no. She honestly hadn't. Not that she didn't want to; she just didn't have the time— not with all the other things going on that's kept her occupied lately.

"His latest one is about the smuggling case. He's titled it, 'The Blind Banker', if you can believe that." He rolled his eyes a little with a, _Yeah-I-know-it's-ridiculous,_ expression. "And before you ask, yes, it's written horrendously like the killer cabbie case."

Harley tilted her head slightly before sitting down into the red plaid chair. _Blind Banker?_ She mused, trying to find the meaning behind the title. Perhaps John was referring to Sebastian being the banker, or Van Coon? And that they were metaphorically blind enough not to see the smugglers coming.

"You probably wouldn't want to read it, regardless," Sherlock said, turning her attention back to him as he sat in his chair across from her. "It seems that John went out of his way to not mention you in it whatsoever."

At first, Harley wasn't sure how to feel about that news. However, after some deliberation, she wrote:

 _That's probably for the best. My mother reads his blog, too, and I don't know how she'd react if she found out about my involvement._

"I highly doubt she'd react as strongly as a proper mother would. That is, if she stops drinking long enough to react at all, if the fact that she hasn't even contacted you since you arrived has anything to do with it."

Harley blinked, her face going completely blank. She didn't know what threw her off guard the most: what he'd said, or the blunt, direct way that he said it. Either way, the comment left her floored for a good moment or two. She wasn't hurt or upset— at first, at least— just, well, surprised.

"Oh," Sherlock said, snapping her out of it and making her look up at him again. He had a somewhat confused frown etched on his face. "Was that not good?"

That question was almost enough to make her smile again— _almost_. If there was one thing she'd learned about the consulting detective since she met him, it was that when it came to social interaction and consideration for other people's feelings, he was…not very tactical.

Not that Harley had any room to judge in that department; she wasn't exactly what one would call a smooth talker either.

With a soft sigh, she wrote down for him: _It's okay. It's not like you're wrong, after all._

Sherlock's frown only deepened when he read her reply. "Hmm, that's not how people normally react."

Harley raised an eyebrow.

"They reply with something more along the lines of, 'piss off.'"

Now both eyebrows were raised. She wrote: _Why?_

He shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe people just don't like someone revealing their stories and problems so easily. I believe your uncle calls it 'brute honesty'…" he stared ahead with a frown and added, "…though, most times he calls it me being a show-off."

Harley's lips twitched at the comment. After a moment of thinking, she wrote down and showed him: _Sometimes, we all need a little brute honesty._

"Is that so…" he said distantly, not speaking it in the form of a question, but more of an afterthought.

Harley looked away, rubbing her arm as she bit the inside of her lip. Yes, what he had said may have been true— in fact, she was actually impressed by it. No one has ever been that straightforward with her before; they usually tried to sugarcoat touchy subjects for her in order to "protect her feelings" or to keep her from getting distraught to the point that she was unstable— not that it's ever happened, they were just being cautious. But not Sherlock; he told things like they were, or like he thought they were, and didn't care what anyone else thought. She couldn't help but respect him for that.

Of course, that didn't mean that she had to like it one-hundred percent of the time.

"So your mother really hasn't messaged you since your first day here at all," Sherlock said.

Her eyes went back to him and nodded lightly.

His eyebrows furrowed together slightly. "And Clara?"

Harley wasn't all that surprised that he knew her name. She tentatively shook her head before explaining:

 _I don't see or hear much from Clara anymore— not since she moved out last October._

Which, now that she thought about it, was borderline devastating. She's known Clara for as long as she could remember; her mother and Clara had known each other long before and then got married by the time she was born. They may not have been thick as thieves, but at least Clara took care of her when her mother was otherwise engaged (meaning she was too busy with work, passed out or hungover).

She supposed that in the end, they just weren't close enough to keep a relationship once they had no other reason to. That's a rather crushing blow to your self-worth.

As if she didn't already have problems in that department.

"So, then, um…how are you holding up, then?" Sherlock asked, looking uncomfortable. "With the divorce and such."

A blind person could tell that this was definitely not his area of expertise.

 _You don't have to ask me that, you know,_ she wrote.

"Yes, I know. I am curious, though. Studies show that most children with divorced parents often think they're to blame for the cause."

She couldn't argue with that; she's read about those statistics somewhere as well. And yes, sometimes, she did feel responsible for their separation. After all, she was…well, she was _her._ After all, why else would Clara not contact her anymore? But then she would try to convince herself that no, that wasn't it. They just grew apart and disagreed on things. That's what people do sometimes, right? It did hurt when her mother and Clara parted ways. At the same time, though, there was a part of Harley that was relieved that she didn't have to endure all the shouting and arguing and throwing things at each other anymore— _extremely_ relieved, in fact. She didn't know if that made her selfish or not, but that was how she felt.

Coming out of her state of thought, she wrote: _I'll be fine. After all, I've been in much worse situations as of late._

He had the decency to look at least a little bit sheepish at what she was implying. "Ah, yes. Well, I suppose I owe you some sort of apology for that."

 _Not your fault._

"Even so, I figured after all that…you might've changed your mind about going home early."

Harley stared at him in astonishment before writing straight away:

 _Are you kidding? This is the most exciting holiday that I've ever been on! Why would anyone ever want to cut it short? I wouldn't miss anything like this for the world._

Sherlock blinked, looking at a loss for words for the second time that evening. A moment later, he leaned back in his chair breathed out steadily— almost as if in relief— making Harley realize just how tense he was before she answered him. Then he smiled. "Well, then, perhaps if you're lucky, we'll be saddled with another exciting case before you have to go home."

She allowed herself to smile back. _Can't come too soon,_ she thought.

Then Sherlock stood from his chair, walking past her and into the kitchen, intent on checking on Stephano-Douglas to see if there was any progress with the saliva experiment. Shaking her head fondly after watching him, she stood up only to go to the shelf to get a book. Picking a large volume that was actually one of her uncle's old books from the top shelves, _In the Cockpit: Inside History-making Aircrafts Volumes I & II, _she went back to the chair, curling up in it, and started to read.

She barely registered Sherlock returning to the living room, only to sit at the table and start typing on John's still-open laptop, instantly opening up to the first tab that was still bookmarked: John's blog.

After a merely a few minutes of silence between them, Sherlock broke it by speaking up. "'Dr. John H. Watson,'" he read aloud to before directing himself to Harley. "What does the H stand for in his middle name? I've asked John, but he refuses to tell me."

Harley's head snapped up, and she gazed at him with a look of indignation, much to Sherlock's confusion. After an excruciatingly long moment of nothing but Harley staring him down, she shook her head, took her notebook, and wrote:

 _I wouldn't touch that with a twenty-foot pole if I were you._

There were three consecutive things in this world that Harley had learned to never, _ever_ , try to discuss with anyone without physically and mentally preparing yourself for an all-out war: religion, politics, and John's middle name.

Sherlock frowned, realizing that he wasn't going to get the answer out of her either. "Then tell me this: is Harley your real name? Or is it a nickname, for Harleen or something?"

 _It's just Harley,_ she answered.

"Is it really, or are you just hiding the truth like your uncle is with his name?"

Her eyebrow lifted lazily, taking in his marginally concealed curiosity and eagerness, making her gather that the whole name-thing was concerning him more than it probably should.

With a pointed look, she tapped on her notebook paper once more, letting him know that that was her answer, and that was that.

Then, before Sherlock could open his mouth, she swiftly jotted down underneath: _And just to get it out of the way, my middle name is Mabel._

That seemed to satisfy him for the most part for the time being, and they went back to reading and searching the internet in companionable silence for the rest of the evening. Occasionally, Sherlock would get up and move around, whether it was to check on the head, peer into his microscope on the kitchen counter, or just stand by the window quietly, gazing out into the busy streets. He even started a fire in the fireplace to warm the room up some more. Harley stayed where she was the entire time, engrossed in her book. As the evening drew into the night, she would oftentimes yawn and rub her eyes, her exhaustion steadily catching up with her.

"John should've been back from the surgery hours ago," Sherlock muttered, staring out the now darkened window. However, he turned back when he heard the scratches of Harley's handwriting:

 _He's probably out with Sarah. He said that he would be back late._

"They're still together?" he asked with slight incredulousness.

Harley smiled in amusement, deciding not to respond to that. She returned her gaze to her book, blinking a few times to clear her vision.

"Aren't you going to bed?" Sherlock asked her. "This is usually about the time you turn in."

 _You mean, when my nights don't consist of criminal chasing, code-searching, and kidnappings?_ she thought. But that wasn't it. The truth was, she didn't want to go to bed— not as long as she could help it— because she was afraid that if she fell asleep, she'd have another one of those nightmares. She couldn't go through that again. She just couldn't.

She shook her head in response to Sherlock's question, and he shrugged dismissively. "Suit yourself."

She returned to the book, though she wasn't paying much attention to what she was reading anymore, her face hardened by the reminder of what's been causing her such stress and sleepless nights lately. She let out a quiet, yet discouraged huff.

Merely a few minutes later, however, a high-pitched, yet very melodious sound from somewhere close by suddenly ripped through her plagued thoughts. With a small gasp and her hold on the book tightening a little, she looked over at the source of the sound. What she saw was Sherlock, standing by the window. His violin was tucked underneath his chin as he held it, an earnest look on his face as he dragged the bow across the strings skillfully, and making the most beautiful music from it. The tune was unfamiliar to Harley; it was airy, but it also had a bit of a dark and mysterious twist to it— a strange-yet-fitting combination.

And Harley loved it.

She watched him play with awe, wonder, and fascination. She knew that he could play the violin; she had heard him the first few nights from upstairs in her bedroom. But she had never actually seen him play in person and up close until now. And she must confess, it was certainly a sight to behold. Sherlock looked like he was just lost in his own little world, not aware of anything that was going on around him, as he brought music to life in high and low pitches on his instrument. In other words: he looked like he was at home— probably the most "at home" Harley's ever seen him, not including him enjoying the thrill of a mystery.

Harley felt her lips naturally curve up into a small, yet genuine smile. She sat back in her chair once more, her hold on her book loosening as she let the music calm her, relieving her of any stress that she had.

When he brought the number to a close with a sharp, high note, Harley clapped, letting him know that she enjoyed it. Sherlock looked over at her, almost like he had forgotten that she was even there for a moment, before he half smiled at her show of support. He bowed his head lightly in appreciation.

Then Harley stifled a yawn as she rubbed her eyes tiredly, her weariness creeping back up on her. Sherlock noticed this, and, after staring at her thoughtfully for a moment, he raised the bow to his violin again and started to play a new song. This time, though, he played more slowly and softly; the tune eerie and almost dream-like. As Harley watched him stroke the strings with delicate fingers, she vaguely recognized the melody. He was playing Schubert's Serenade, a piece that she had heard once before, a long time ago. She was surprised Sherlock even knew it, but nonetheless, he played with as much talent and grace as the first time. He really was so full of surprises.

Harley observed him as he played his second piece for one more moment, watching each rise and fall of his bow, every sway in his gaunt limbs. Then she moved her dreary gaze back to her book, deciding to read and listen to the music at the same time. The former action was getting harder to do so, though. Her eyes grew heavier and heavier the more she tried to read, her mind growing foggier with drowsiness, but it was a pleasant sort of drowsiness, completely unlike the lousy way she felt after suffering a restless night. Her hold on the book gradually lowered into her lap.

After a while, she gave up trying to read altogether and slowly rested her head on the arm of the chair, her face buried into the crook of her arm. She closed her eyes, too tired to keep them open anymore, and instead took solace in simply listening to the soothing music as she relaxed into the softness of the chair along with the warmth radiating from the fireplace, beginning to doze off.

 _If there's one thing I'm allowed to miss when I return home, it would be this,_ she thought with a soft sigh.

And that was the last coherent thought she had that night before she was swept away by the music and eventually drifted into a much needed sleep.

* * *

Upon seeing that her breathing had grown slow, long, and heavy, Sherlock smiled at the now slumbering girl in the armchair as he continued to play, bringing the number to a close. He finished off the piece with a soft, yet profound flourish. Then he carefully set his violin aside, having completed his purpose with it in lulling her to sleep. He was honestly surprised that it worked, especially after seeing the flicker of fear that flashed in her eyes after he suggested she turn in earlier. No doubt that she's still been suffering a case of insomnia lately, and if not that, bad dreams— of what, he was still unsure about. Therefore, he figured that the best way was to soothe her into a more calming state just before falling asleep through music— something he suspected she's never had the luxury of experiencing before as an aid. He's tested that theory before more than once, with her uncle. Very rarely now, John would still suffer night terrors regarding the war in Afghanistan. And on those rare nights, Sherlock would play softly on his violin, and it would eventually help calm John down. Neither of them talked about those nights, though, and that was most likely for the best. With John, though, it took much longer for it to take effect, unlike his niece. Harley must really enjoy his playing. And he knew that, of course. He always knew, ever since her first night in 221B.

He approached the desk soundlessly, where John's computer still lay open. He exited out of the few tabs he left open before quietly closing the laptop— those tabs being John's blog, his forum on his website, _The Science of Deduction,_ and a site for purchasing an aeroplane ticket to Minsk. He had just recently received a message on both his and John's website from a man named Barry Berwick, requesting his help in an urgent matter. Apparently, he's been arrested for murder in Belarus. Probably nothing extremely illuminating, but nonetheless worth checking out. Any case was better than no case at all; especially considering how long he's gone without one (he knew that it's not even been a day since the last one, but still…).

A soft exhale and the sound of Harley lightly shifting in the chair brought him out of his reverie.

 _But that can wait for a little longer._

He looked over at Harley, who was still fast asleep and curled up in the chair, her head resting on the arm, the book she'd been reading barely within the grasp of her other hand and lying on the edge of her lap.

With a small but amused smile, he carefully took the book from her before it could fall to the floor and placed it back on the shelf. He turned back to the girl, but then his attention was caught by her notebook on the side table next to her. Recalling their time in Scotland Yard earlier that day when she was busily writing in it without a care in the world (after successfully scaring off Anderson with her stare), he approached her and took her notebook, curious about what she was writing down. Of course, if John were present, he'd scold Sherlock about there being a fine line between boundaries and respect for privacy…something Sherlock never really cared for and probably never will in the near future. Besides, he remembered when they were in the Chinese café, when she lent him her pen and notebook to write in when he needed them, so it must not be that big of a deal for her.

Recalling the exact page length of the book she was writing in, he flipped it open, where he found, to his surprise, several notes jotted down on what he had told her about the science of deduction when they were at the park— word for word. He skimmed through the pages, his emotions torn between astounded that she even remembered all of what he'd said, and touched that she was interested enough in his work to take notes on them to keep for herself.

 _She has an eidetic memory,_ he concluded. _That would explain why she's exceptional when it comes to doing research._

He smiled once more before quietly closing the notebook. Then he moved his gaze back onto Harley, noticing how relaxed she looked, her muscles loose, not one limb making even the tiniest twitch. It made him realize that this was the first time he had seen her look so at peace— even in her sleep. Today certainly has helped relieve her of some of the stress, he thought. And, to his surprise, he found that he quite enjoyed the day as well. Not that he would ever admit that to anyone, of course.

Coming out of his state of thought, he sighed. He stared at the sleeping girl for another second before glancing through the doorway, checking to make sure they wouldn't be disturbed. When he was certain, he turned back with a more soft expression. Then, in a manner that was more practiced from the last time she'd fallen asleep in his presence, he gently picked her up from the chair. She hardly even stirred before settling in his arms. She must've been more exhausted than she let on, he observed. That being the case, he decided to take the chance, and carefully made his way upstairs and into the guest bedroom. He laid her down on the bed before gently tugging the blankets out and draping them over her. To his amusement, Harley burrowed her head further into the pillow at the sudden warmth that surrounded her, drawing in a long breath before letting it out into what sounded from her like a content sigh.

But then he started, almost taking a step back in shock.

Because with that sigh, another sound came out of her.

It was so soft, but he was still close enough to catch it. A small noise— like a whimper— reverberated from the pit of her throat, and just barely escaped her mouth. After blinking and staring for the longest time, he pulled away from her. He shut off the light and quietly left the room. Closing the door gently behind him, he leaned against it, contemplating with a scrutinizing frown. Then, shaking his head, he retreated back downstairs to get ready for his trip to Belarus and started packing. Though, his thoughts still somehow went back to that one sliver of a moment in her room.

 _Selective mutism._

For some reason, that deduction didn't sound right anymore for Harley Watson. He had his suspicions before, but now he was more certain.

Because after tonight, he was starting to become convinced that somewhere deep inside her…there was still a voice, just waiting to come out and be heard.

* * *

 **A/N- And so ends the fluffy filler chapters and thus beginning our way into _The Great Game_ storyline. Oooh, boy, this is gonna be so much fun! *breaks into maniacal laughter***

 **I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one who's made the connection between _A Study in Pink_ and _The Princess Bride_ , and I certainly won't be the last. It would've been hilarious if the episode played out that way, though, with Sherlock overthinking it waaayyy too much, and the cabbie just sitting there with that dumb smile.**

 **Thanks again to all you phenomenal readers! And especially to all you who have reviewed, faved, and/or followed! I greatly appreciate the feedback and the love!**

 **P.S.- I'm sure you're all aware by now that I changed the story rating from K+ to T. Sorry, kiddos, but you have to be this tall to ride now. Just kidding, I don't care. Go nuts. I promise I won't tell your parents (That's a lie, of course. Your mother and I are very disappointed in you).**


	22. The Great Game- With a Bang

**A/N- Hello, my delectable apple strudels! I've been on my best writing streak in months, so you get this chapter early! How lovely!**

 **I'm glad that you all enjoyed the previous chapters with Harley and Sherlock, but alas, we must move on...for trouble lurks on the horizon.**

 **Disclaimer: I only own my OC**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

When Harley woke up the next morning in her bed, it took her a couple of minutes to fully gather herself. She slowly opened her eyes, only to squint at the bright sunlight that bled through the small opening of the curtains and onto her face. Still half-asleep, she felt disoriented at first, not used to waking up so late in the morning. She pushed herself into a sitting position and rubbed her bleary eyes, trying to recall what happened last night. She remembered coming back to the flat with the head in the cooler, then going over the killer taxi driver case with Sherlock, and then spending the rest of the night reading by the fireplace. No, wait, Sherlock had also played on his violin, which was lovely. She also remembered, though vaguely, falling asleep in the chair sometime afterwards.

So how did she end up in her bed upstairs?

It only took her a moment to come up with the answer to that question, and she was conflicted as to how to feel about it; her emotions torn between gratitude and embarrassment that he had done that for her, until she realized that she felt more rested than she had in days, not to mention she didn't even have one nightmare.

And although she'd probably rather die than admit it, it actually felt pretty comforting to know that she wasn't alone.

She stretched and popped her neck the side, further waking herself up. Then she looked over and found her notebook placed on the bedside table, with a paper folded in half on top of it. Puzzled, she took the paper and unfolded it. On the paper was a note that read:

 _Gone to Minsk for a case. Check on the head for any physical changes in the saliva in my absence. I shouldn't be long._

 _—SH_

Harley smirked. So he's already got himself landed with another case, and in Minsk, of all places. Good on him— though, she did have mixed feelings about being left in charge of the head.

Then, getting an idea, she grabbed for her mobile phone and, after going through her history of recently received texts and selecting the number she'd gotten from Sherlock the day before, she typed out:

 **Be careful if it gets dangerous. –HW**

She hit the send button. She didn't expect him to answer right away, if at all, so she put her phone on the bedside as she got out of bed to freshen herself up. However, just as she was brushing the knots out of her hair, her phone bleeped, the screen brightening. She went over and looked at the new message:

 **I will. –SH**

She half-smiled. Then she swiftly replied:

 **And don't worry; I'll take good care of Stephano. –HW**

Hardly ten seconds later, he texted back with:

 ***Douglas. –SH**

Her half-smile grew into a grin. She still wasn't sure if she should be disgusted with herself as well as him that they were bantering over the name of a dismembered head in the fridge. But she wasn't, not really. If anything, she found it endearing— in its own, strange way.

After pulling most of her hair out of her eyes with her headband, she ran downstairs with her notebook and writing utensils in tow and slid into the kitchen, where her uncle sat at the table drinking tea.

"Well, good morning," he said with a cheerful smile. "You're looking chipper today."

 _I_ feel _chipper. And coming from me, that's a stretch,_ she thought. She smiled back and went to give him a hug, in which he returned.

"Sorry for being out so late last night. I bet you were worried," he said.

She shrugged and shook her head no, as her way of saying that she wasn't too bothered. Then she took her notebook and asked:

 _Where were you, anyway?_

"I was out with Sarah."

She made a face. _Knew it._

"Hey, hey, don't look at me like that," John chided, though he was still smiling. "You know, Sarah and I were talking, and we both agree that sometime soon, she, you, and I should do something together."

Her face didn't change. _Why?_ she wrote.

"She just wants to get to know you. That's all. After all, you did help save her life."

She didn't respond to that. _Sheesh, you nudge an arrow a few inches out of the way, and suddenly everyone wants to be your friend._

"It'd be good for you, you know," John said when she didn't answer.

She looked away with a small frown. _Right…good for me._

"Anyway, I got a text from Sherlock. Apparently, he left sometime early this morning for Russia to check out a case. Did he tell you?"

She nodded. He actually left a note, but same difference.

"Ah, good. Speaking of, Mrs. Hudson said that she barely saw or heard the two of you yesterday until later in the evening. What all did you guys do?"

Harley hesitated at first. What better way could she explain that they went to the park and openly judged people, went to Scotland Yard and insulted and scared off some officers, had a fine meal for free (actually, that part was okay), went to St. Bart's morgue to get a head, then spent the evening going over a case regarding a murderous taxi driver? _Ehhh, no._

And judging by John's easy-going stature, he still hasn't discovered the head currently residing in the fridge just a few feet away from him. So they were still in the clear— for now.

Putting on her best innocent look, she shrugged and wrote: _Just hung out, mostly. It was a boring day for the both of us._

"Ah, I'm sorry about that. Especially considering how Sherlock can be when he's bored. And I'm sorry that we haven't been together much since I got the job. But don't worry, my shift isn't very long today," said John.

She smiled a little. That would explain why he hasn't left yet.

"So what are you going to do today?" he asked, then added, "And don't just reply with 'read.' You need to do something other than that sometimes."

 _Darn, he's onto me,_ she thought. After a moment of thinking, she wrote: _Maybe I'll hang out with Mrs. Hudson downstairs._

John grinned in approval. "That's good. She could use some company."

She smiled back. Then she went to make some toast with butter for breakfast, joining her uncle at the table. Several minutes later, they hugged each other in farewell.

"I'll be back this evening," John told her.

She nodded with a smile before watching him leave. When she was alone, she turned toward the fridge, her smile completely gone, replaced with a look of slight dread.

 _Well, let's get this over with,_ she thought, taking a deep breath and letting it out before she opened the fridge to be met with the pale, lifeless head.

 _Morning, Stephano,_ she mentally greeted. She reached out, only to stop, unsure how to go through with this. She looked around until she found an unused rag. She took it, put it over her left hand, and used it to slowly pry open the mouth. Holding her breath, she peered inside.

 _Still no changes,_ she observed. She quickly removed her hand, shut the door, and released her breath. Then she looked down at the rag in her hand thoughtfully for a moment, before throwing it into the rubbish bin and retreating to the bathroom to wash her hands thoroughly.

Once that was over with, she sat down at the table in the living room and opened up John's computer. She may have promised to visit Mrs. Hudson, but first she wanted to check something out. The first thing she did when she logged in was click on his most viewed, bookmarked icon, and it instantly took her to his blog. She started to browse through some of his most recent posts, including _The Blind Banker_. Sherlock was right: John didn't mention her in the case— unless you counted a paragraph in the beginning of the entry, where he vaguely mentioned them being accompanied by an unnamed third party to the bank. But other than that, nothing else indicated that she was with them.

Then she went on to skim through some of the comments left by some various viewers. Molly Hooper's commented on a few of the entries, a Mike Stamford, a Marie Turner (which was actually Mrs. Hudson borrowing her neighbor's computer); even that Sally Donovan from Scotland Yard has commented on a couple of them. Of course, they only consisted of one word: **' _Freak_.'**

Harley glared at the screen. _Oh, that's charming._

There was also a person with the username, _theimprobableone,_ who frequently commented on John's blog. In Harley's opinion, the things he posted were hilarious, and not ultimately in the right way. So far, he's always commented about how much of an expert he was on Sherlock Holmes, how unconventional he was, and that if he were Sherlock's colleague, they'd have solved the cases much faster. The only thing she didn't like about this "improbable one" was how he always degraded John, like he wasn't good enough to be Sherlock's friend.

 _Hello. Can you say delusional fanboy?_

Rolling her eyes, she moved on. She did find a Barry Berwick who had commented on the latest case, urgently requesting Sherlock's help in Belarus. _Ah, so that's the guy,_ she thought. And underneath his comment, John had replied with a link to Sherlock's website, _The Science of Deduction._

She immediately clicked onto the link, curious to finally read the consulting detective's site, and she was brought to it. She read through the homepage:

 **' _The Science of Deduction by Sherlock Holmes'_**

 ** _'I'm Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective._**

 ** _I'm not going to go into detail about how I do what I do because chances are you wouldn't understand. If you've got a problem that you want me to solve, then contact me. Interesting cases only please._**

 ** _This is what I do:_**

 ** _1\. I observe everything._**

 ** _2\. From what I observe, I deduce everything._**

 ** _3\. When I've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how mad it might seem, must be the truth._**

 ** _If you need assistance, contact me and we'll discuss its potential.'_**

Harley frowned a little after reading the first part. _Wow. Even his writing sounds smug,_ she thought. But the rest of the entry was promising enough. She went on to explore the rest of his website, reading through some of the cases that he published. The one that she enjoyed in particular was _The Green Ladder._

But the one thing on his site that grabbed her attention the most was the couple of hidden messages that have been sent to Sherlock from an Anonymous viewer. Interested, she clicked onto the first hidden message and read it:

 ** _'I've emailed you a little message. A little game to play. I do like games.':_**

 ** _'Dearest Sherlock_**

 ** _A Roman Emperor will help you work out what this means._**

 _ **DSPCWZNV T LX HLENSTYR JZF**_

 _ **xx'** _

Underneath the message was a link titled, _Show Solution_ , but Harley didn't click on it. She first wanted to see if she could figure it out for herself. She did like trying to solve puzzles and crack enigmas. They were a good challenge.

She sat back with a hand under her chin, reminiscing about the code and the message. A Roman Emperor would help work out the message…

It clicked a few seconds later. She instantly opened a new tab and searched "Caesar Cipher", which was known to be the simplest form of encryption in history. She took her notebook and started writing down the letters in the message in one row, and then, glancing up at the search website and using the Caesar technique, she wrote a new letter underneath each first letter. When she was finished, she sat up and looked down at the results:

 _ **SHERLOCK I AM WATCHING YOU**_

She blinked, taking in the message. Then, shaking her head and dismissing it, she went on to the second hidden message:

 ** _'Hi Sherlock_**

 _ **SOMNEHCCGTEKOTYRIMOOLAIGU**_

 ** _You'll never find out who I am. I live off the grid._**

 ** _cheers_**

 _ **xx'** _

Harley's eyes narrowed at the message. This one might be a bit trickier. The first thing she did was count out how many letters there were, in which there were twenty-five. Then there was the cipher itself. She thought hard for a moment. Perhaps the answer was in the message like the last one, like a hint. _'You'll never find out who I am. I live off the grid.'_

A minute later, her eyes widened in realization. The message hinted with a "grid", and there were twenty-five letters. _Oh, duh. Come on, Harley. As a math geek, you should've got that sooner,_ she chided herself.

She flipped to a fresh page in her book and drew a five-by-five grid chart. When she finished, she wrote the letters in the boxes from left to right. Then, holding her notebook up and squinting, she read the letters down from top to bottom, left to right:

 _ **SHERLOCK I AM COMING TO GET YOU**_

She lowered her notebook back onto the table and stared ahead with a frown. This _Anonymous_ fellow was starting to creep her out. Forget _theimprobableone, this_ person was the obsessed stalker. She began to read through some of the comments sent from _Anonymous_ throughout Sherlock's website _,_ but every time they did, it would only be met with dismissal from Sherlock, like it was simply a waste of the consulting detective's time. She supposed that if Sherlock didn't think too highly of this viewer, she shouldn't either. However, she did feel a bit uneasy at the mysterious person's latest comment:

 **' _Looks like I'll have to get your attention a different way.'_**

Now that Harley thought about it, she's seen a few comments from a username simply titled _Anonymous_ throughout John's blog as well. They've even commented on the _Blind Banker_ case just recently. Quickly going back to John's blog, she went to the case entry and scrolled down to the comment section. Sure enough, there it was:

 **' _Oh, yes. Bravo. Although, I am quite curious about this "third party" that you so elusively mentioned. I don't believe you're giving us the entire story there, Dr. Watson.'_**

After reading the comment, Harley sat there for a long moment, her face blank. Then she exited out of the tab and slowly closed the laptop.

 _Okay…I think that's enough internet-browsing for one day._

Shaking her head, as if trying to shake away the mere thought of what she had just read, she stood from the table and stretched out her back a bit. Checking the time, she realized that she's been on the computer basically all morning. Deciding to spend the rest of the day keeping her word with John, she headed downstairs and knocked on Mrs. Hudson's door. The landlady answered several seconds later, and smiled upon seeing Harley.

"Oh, hello, Harley," she greeted cheerfully. "May I help you?"

Her explanation already written up in her notebook, Harley held it out for her:

 _Sherlock and my uncle are both out for the day. I was just wondering if I could stay with you for a bit until they get back._

Mrs. Hudson's smile widened. "Well, of course, dearie. Come in, come in. I was just straightening up a bit."

She backed up slightly for Harley to enter. As Harley did so, she jotted down:

 _I can help._

"Would you? Thank you. That's very kind of you."

That was how Harley spent the rest of the afternoon: assisting Mrs. Hudson with whatever chore she could think of doing. She helped her with the laundry, dusting, baking— she even changed the burnt-out lightbulb for her in her kitchen. It definitely kept her busy, and Mrs. Hudson would often talk to her about something, whether it be a television show she was currently watching, or an event from the past. Harley would listen and nod occasionally, proving to be a good audience for the landlady without having to say anything back. And when Mrs. Hudson couldn't think of anything else for them to do later that afternoon, they sat together at her kitchen table with tea and biscuits that they had baked, where Mrs. Hudson told Harley more stories— including the story about how she met Sherlock and gave him the discount to the flat upstairs. She used to live in Florida with her husband years go, but then her husband was sentenced to death on account of double murder. Sherlock was able to help out… _by ensuring that he got sentenced to death._

Harley smiled in surprise. That took a turn that she wasn't quite expecting. Then again, since there wasn't a Mr. Hudson around the flat, she supposed that she should've known.

Also, it turned out that not only did her husband commit murder, but he was also having affairs behind her back, as well as running a drug cartel.

"It was actually a relief, when he was arrested, and I found out about all of that nonsense he was doing," Mrs. Hudson commented. "So I'm not too upset about it."

Harley grinned behind her cup before taking a sip of her tea. If Mrs. Hudson could take all of that and simply shrug it off in the end, then she was way more awesome than Harley had realized.

A while later, once the afternoon turned into the evening, they eventually finished their tea and emptied the plate of biscuits. Harley offered to wash the dishes, and Mrs. Hudson left the kitchen for a few moments to do something. When Harley cleaned the last cup and put it aside, Mrs. Hudson returned, wearing her coat and holding her purse.

"I'm going to Tesco's to get some groceries. I'll be back in a bit," she said.

 _Would you like me to come with you?_ Harley wrote.

"Oh, no, thank you, sweetie. You've done enough for me already. Besides, I think I heard Sherlock come in just now. Why don't you go keep him some company? He tends to get restless when left by himself for so long."

 _Don't I know it,_ Harley thought. She nodded in agreement, and after Mrs. Hudson gave her a hug, the landlady set out for the store. Once she was gone, Harley started to make her way upstairs, a small smile on her face.

But then, halfway up the steps, an ear-splitting shot rang throughout the entire flat. Harley flinched so hard, she would've fallen over if she hadn't grabbed onto the railing. A hand clutching her now rapidly beating heart, she stared up the stairs with wide eyes, breathing heavily.

 _Was that a…GUNSHOT?!_

She raced up the remaining steps as fast as she could and burst into the living room, eyes darting around frantically…

…until they landed on a certain consulting detective, slumped back in his chair wearing sweatpants, a grey T-shirt, and blue dressing gown. A pistol was in his hand, hanging languidly over the arm of the chair.

At the sound of her entrance, Sherlock lifted his head and looked at her lazily. "Ah, there you are. I was wondering where you went off to," he drawled.

Harley just stood there, utterly dumbfounded. She looked across the room from him— in the direction the gun was pointing— and saw a yellow, slightly lop-sided smiley face that had been spray-painted onto the wall above the sofa, a bullet hole embedded into one of the eyes.

 _...what._

She turned back to Sherlock, glaring at him.

"What? I'm bored," he said after a moment of awkward silence. Then he lifted the gun again. Knowing exactly what was going to happen, Harley quickly backed away, putting her hands over her ears.

There went another gunshot, straight into the other eye.

Once she made sure that he wasn't going to fire another shot, she reentered the room. She rubbed a hand down her face resignedly. _I am so not scrubbing that off the wall this time,_ she thought.

Then Sherlock turned back to her. "Would you like to give it a go?" He held the gun out for her.

Harley blinked a few times, not quite understanding what he'd just asked. She slowly pointed at herself.

Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes a little. "Yes, you. Would you like to try? It's been proven that activities such as shooting can help relieve negativity for those with anxiety."

Her eyebrow went up a notch. She'd never heard that one before. Still, though, this was a man offering a gun to a twelve-year-old.

Then, as if to spread the icing on the cake, Sherlock added, "I promise not to tell your uncle."

She looked away, contemplating for a moment. Then, swallowing a little, she cautiously approached Sherlock, who had stood up as soon as she reached him. He had her face the wall as he went to stand right behind her, moving his arms around to where his hands were right in front of her.

"You're left-handed, so you're going to hold it around the trigger with your left-hand. Yes, like that," he said, guiding her hands and fingers into the proper way to hold the gun. "You don't necessarily have to hold it with both hands, but in your case, I highly recommend it. So put your right hand here. There. Now just aim, and pull the trigger. In my experience, it's best to breathe out as you fire. And hold it firmly now, or else the recoil will jerk it back and hit you in the face."

Harley had never felt so nervous in her life. She held the heavy pistol up, her arms shaking. She took a deep breath, trying to keep her aim still. Then, breathing out slowly through her mouth, she pulled the trigger.

Another deafening shot sounded out as the gun fired, making Harley jolt back a bit into Sherlock. When she looked back up, she saw a new bullet hole just a little under the smiley-face's mouth.

Harley stared, stunned at first. But then she grinned, feeling a new rush of thrill and satisfaction course through her body. _That…was…awesome!_

"Hmm, not bad, Harley," Sherlock said, patting her shoulder. "Would you like to try again?"

As much as she really felt like it, she thought it best that once was enough. She turned back to him and shook her head, but she was still smiling, letting him know that she liked it. She carefully handed the gun back to him, and he went to sit back down in the chair in the sulking-like manner she saw him earlier.

As soon as he turned his head toward the wall, Harley instantly retreated to the bathroom to escape any oncoming firing. Sure enough, the second she closed the door, he shot several more rounds into the wall.

But then, after, the fourth shot, Harley suddenly heard her uncle's voice yell, "What the _hell_ are you doing?!"

She barely heard Sherlock mumble something, but only when John asked, "What?" did she clearly hear him raise his voice, "Bored!"

"No—!" John cried out, but was cut off by two more gunshots.

"BORED!" Sherlock shouted between each shot.

Harley heard a light scuffling, as well as some unsavory words exchanged, before John's voice called out worriedly, "Harley?"

Harley noisily opened the door and stepped out, making her way back into the living room. John had managed to take the gun away from Sherlock and unload it, and upon seeing Harley unharmed, his face slacked a bit, relieved. He went to lock the pistol away in a small safe on the table.

Meanwhile, Sherlock walked across the room toward the couch, scratching behind his ear. "Don't know what's got into the criminal classes. Good job I'm not one of them," he muttered.

John straightened, his tight face back, scowling at Sherlock. "So you take it out on the wall?"

"Oh, the wall had it coming." Sherlock ran his fingers along the smiley face before flicking a loose splinter of wood out of the mouth area. Then he flopped down on his back onto the sofa in a dramatic manner.

Harley looked from Sherlock to John, feeling like things may have finally settled down a bit now. With a soft sigh, she went to sit in the chair next to the couch.

"What about that Russian case?" John asked as he took his coat off and threw it on his chair.

"Belarus. Open and shut domestic murder. Not worth my time," Sherlock replied. Then he looked up at Harley and added, "Plus his grammar was ghastly. You probably would've died after only a minute of listening to him."

Harley winced, then nodded in agreement. She wasn't afraid to admit that she could be a bit of a "Grammar Nazi" sometimes.

"Ah, shame," John breathed out sarcastically as he disappeared into the kitchen. A few seconds later, he called out, "Anything in? I'm starving."

Harley stiffened in her seat, her head turning quickly toward the frame between the living room and kitchen with feared anticipation. _No, no, no, wait—!_

Too late. She heard him open the fridge door, only to be followed with, "Oh, f—!" and then the door closing.

A heavy silence. Then the door opened up again, then closed once more. Even more silence.

"It's a head," John said in a low voice, then raised it to speak across to Sherlock. "A severed head."

 _Excuse you, that severed head has a name, you know. Two names, in fact,_ Harley thought.

"Just tea for me, thanks," Sherlock said, unmoving.

"There's a head in the fridge," John exclaimed indignantly, marching back into the sitting room.

"Yes."

"A bloody head! May I remind you that there is currently a child in this flat?"

"Well, where else was I supposed to put it? And anyway, she was there when I got it from Bart's morgue," Sherlock retorted.

Harley buried her face in her hands, unwilling to meet John's now disbelieving face.

"I'm measuring the coagulation of saliva after death," Sherlock continued, ignoring John's withering glare.

After a long moment, John rubbed his face with his hand despairingly, giving up.

"I see you've written up the taxi driver case," Sherlock changed the subject, waving a hand towards the laptop.

"Uh, yes," John replied, glancing once back at the fridge, then went to sit down in the leather chair.

" _'A Study in Pink.'_ Nice," Sherlock said casually, but Harley could hear the sarcasm hidden underneath his tone. Harley glanced over at him warily, knowing full well how he truly felt about John's blog.

"Well, you know. Pink lady, pink case, pink phone— there was a lot of pink," John explained, trying to come off as modest, while Sherlock picked up a magazine from the coffee table and flipped it open to a random page. "Did you like it?"

Without even looking up, Sherlock dragged out, "Uuummm…no."

 _There it is._

"What? Why not?" John asked. "I thought you'd be flattered."

Sherlock finally lowered the magazine and turned to glare at him. "Flattered?" He raised his index finger and began to recite, "'Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds. What's incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.'"

"Now, hold on! I didn't mean that in a—"

"Oh, you meant spectacularly ignorant in a _nice_ way…"

Harley didn't get to hear the rest of what he had to say, because right then she shot up from the chair and hastily made her way out of the sitting room and into the kitchen, aware that the conversation was rapidly blooming into an all-out argument— something she wanted no part of whatsoever.

 _Right. Tea. I'll go ahead and make some— way at the other end of the flat,_ she thought, her eyes swiftly moving around to find the kettle.

She could hear the two men continue to bicker to one another as she began to pour water into the kettle and place it on the stove, their voices growing louder and louder. Harley tried to tune them out as best she could. Then she heard John exclaim, "It's primary school stuff! Kids younger than Harley know it! How can _you_ not know that?!"

She took a moment to poke her head into the living room to glare hard at John. _Oi, y_ _ou leave me out of this._ Then she retreated back into the safety of the kitchen, turning on the burner.

After a few long moments, Harley didn't hear anymore arguing. Figuring it was safe to come back out, she made to rejoin them.

But of course, it wasn't over. As soon as she was in the living room, John shouted suddenly, "But it's the solar system!"

Sherlock, who was now sitting up on the couch, briefly buried his face in his hands as he growled. "Oh, _hell_! What does that matter?!" he exploded. "So we go around the sun! If we went around the moon or round and round the garden like a teddy bear, it wouldn't make any difference!"

Harley stood frozen on the spot, half surprised at the outburst, and half amused at what he'd said.

"All that matters to me is the work! Without that, my brain rots." Sherlock ruffled his hair in frustration before scowling back up at John. "Put that in your blog. Or better still; stop inflicting your opinions on the world." With that, he shoved the magazine across the coffee table before turning and curling up into a ball, his back facing the room.

Everything was stock still and quiet at first, save for the sound of the door closing downstairs, indicating Mrs. Hudson's return. Harley glanced from Sherlock to her uncle. John was looking elsewhere, pursing his lips. Harley knew that look; he was pissed.

Then, without a word, John got up and grabbed his coat.

Harley watched him helplessly as he put on his coat and started toward the door, until Sherlock turned back to watch him as well.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked.

"Out. I need some air," John said tersely. He sent Harley an apologetic look before he made his way to the stairs.

While John and Mrs. Hudson spoke briefly on the staircase as they passed one another, Sherlock and Harley looked at each other for a moment. Then, with a disapproving frown, she lightly shook her head before turning and walking away toward the left window. In her peripheral vision, she could see Sherlock angrily turn away again and sulk as if he felt the world was against him, but she didn't acknowledge it, nor did she really care.

"Hoo-hoo!" Mrs. Hudson softly called as she knocked on the door with her free hand, her other hand holding a plastic bag of groceries.

Both Harley and Sherlock turned to regard her. Harley smiled a little, waving at her.

"You two had a little domestic?" Mrs. Hudson asked Sherlock as she walked into the kitchen.

Sherlock didn't reply. Instead he flailed about to upright himself and got up from the couch, walking right over the coffee table. Sighing, Harley turned back and pulled the curtain away in time to watch her uncle leave the building and cross the street, walking away into the night. A few seconds later, she felt someone approach her from behind. She glimpsed back and saw Sherlock staring out into the streets as well.

"Ooh, it's a bit nippy out there. He should've wrapped himself up a bit more," Mrs. Hudson remarked worriedly.

"Look at that," Sherlock said in low, wistful voice. "Quiet, calm, peaceful….isn't it _hateful_?"

"Oh, I'm sure something will turn up, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson assured him as she put a receipt on the kitchen table and started to make her leave. "A nice murder; that'll cheer you up."

Harley smirked. _Good old Mrs. Hudson— always knows just what to say._

"Can't come too soon," Sherlock whispered. He and Harley looked at each other, both of them thinking back to their conversation the day before, about possibly getting another interesting case sometime before she had to leave.

"Hey," Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, coming to a halt at the door. "What've you done to my bloody wall?!"

Both Harley and Sherlock couldn't help but quirk a smile, and Sherlock turned to admire his handiwork.

"I'm putting this on your rent, young man!" Mrs. Hudson told him angrily before storming downstairs, leaving the girl and the detective alone.

Sherlock walked away from Harley, moving to the center of the room, while Harley stayed put by the window. She smiled as she watched Sherlock's face split into a grin, imitating the now bullet-ridden yellow face on the wall, before he returned it to normal and turned to look back at Harley.

But whatever he was planning on saying, he didn't get the chance to say it.

Because in that moment, it felt to Harley like the entire world had exploded right in her face. Literally.

* * *

 **A/N- Dun dun duuunnn! And so the games have begun! The chapter ended _literally_ with a blast! **

**And the more I butcher the word 'literally', the more I question myself as an English honor student. Seriously, I'm starting to sound like Chris Treager.**

 **Also, I hope that it pleases some of you to know that next chapter, Harley finally gets to meet Piecroft Scones...I mean Mycroft Holmes.**


	23. Harley vs the Government

**A/N- So apparently, you guys didn't appreciate me leaving the last chapter like that. Heheh, sorry about that, but I did warn you once before. I am notorious for cliffhangers when opportunity sees fit. In the words of Moriarty: "I did tell you, but did you listen?"**

 **Well, at least I didn't take forever to update this time. Writing streak still going strong!**

 **Disclaimer: I only on my OC.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

In retrospect, Harley felt that she ought to put it on record that the Hollywood film industry is completely irresponsible for the way they portray explosions. Seriously, there is no possible way that the people in the movies can just stand still or walk away casually when something blows up behind them without a single hair out of place. Any sensible person who's ever been near a real explosion knows how extremely powerful they are.

Not to mention extremely painful.

At first, Harley had no idea what was happening. The only thing she knew was that one second she was standing in the living room, and then suddenly, there was a flash of light as well as a massive, deafening _BOOM!_ from right behind her.

The next thing she knew, she was temporarily airborne. She couldn't stop herself from tumbling through the air, leaving her unaware which way was up or down. Then she landed on the floor with a loud thud, but not before her head hit something hard. She sucked in a sharp breath, only to inhale dust and start coughing hysterically, feeling like she was suffocating.

Everything around her was still quaking from the blast due to aftershock, but Harley couldn't hear it. In fact, she couldn't hear anything. Her ears were ringing like mad. And it hurt. It hurt so much.

But the absolute worst part was after she hit her head, her vision turned red, and suddenly she wasn't seeing the flat anymore, but something else. It was too blurry and bright to fully make out, but from what she could gather, it looked like a dark figure, standing over her. Then, suddenly, the figure lunged at her, with what Harley guessed were its hands reaching for her. And then everything went black, but that didn't stop her from feeling the same way that she felt after General Shan struck her that night.

Harley squeezed her eyes shut and she hunched up into a tight ball, clutching her head in agony as she felt another panic attack rising. _No, no, no! Not again! Please, not again!_ she screamed repeatedly in her mind as her breathing quickened, her heart rate increasing by the second. The ringing in her ears had eventually died down, but she still couldn't hear anything. Everything sounded fuzzy— as though her ears had been stuffed with cotton. She could barely even think, barely even move. The only thing she was able to do was sit there, curled up, and wait for this horrible feeling to go away as tears streamed down her face.

Suddenly, she felt hands on her, and her body cringed and went even more rigid, fearing the worst. But the hands were persistent, shifting her onto her back and removing her own hands from her head. Then she heard voices, but they sounded muffled, like they were trying to speak through a pillow.

Slowly, the pain and anxiety leached away, and her hearing cleared up a little— enough to finally pick up intelligible words. But what she heard didn't sound all that reassuring.

"Harley, wake up! Harley!" Sherlock's usually low and collected voice was frantic as it called out from right above her. Harley winced before her eyelids fluttered, struggling to open them. But once they did open, she grimaced from the light in the room that suddenly seemed too bright, and she quickly shut her eyes again. She did, however, manage to catch sight of a disheveled Sherlock knelt down over her, his face contorted with worry that seemed oddly out of character for him.

"Harley, no, open your eyes and look at me!" he demanded, but that only made her tense up even more.

 _Oh, God, I'm gonna hurl,_ she thought despairingly, feeling a deep wave of dizziness and nausea come over her.

Then she felt an arm slide under her back, another under her legs, and together lifting her from the floor. She felt them moving until seconds later, she was slowly lowered back down until she was sitting on a hard surface.

"Harley, you need to sit up and open your eyes for me. Can you do that?" Sherlock asked, his voice more careful and calm than earlier.

She didn't have the desire to nod, as her head felt like a railroad spike had been hammered into her skull, but she gradually uncurled herself and straightened. Her vision still a bit fuzzy and sensitive to the light, she strained her eyes open and found that she was now sitting on the edge of the countertop in the kitchen. She squinted up at Sherlock, who stood towering over her.

Then Sherlock turned away and pulled out his mobile phone, keeping a firm hand on her shoulder to make sure she wouldn't fall over. He dialed a number and put it to his ear. A minute later, however, he growled angrily as the tone went to voicemail. He tried calling again, and once more, no one on the other end answered. "Of course he wouldn't answer his phone," he said in frustration.

Harley figured that was most likely John he was trying to call. What a fine time for him to be mad at Sherlock and pull the silent treatment on him. _And they say we girls are stubborn that way,_ Harley thought hazily as she closed her eyes tiredly, her head slowly nodding forward.

"Don't fall asleep," Sherlock suddenly said, bringing her head back up with his hand.

She jumped in surprise, blinking rapidly.

Sherlock stared at her with that worried, but also now contemplative expression. A moment later, he came back to himself and told her, "I'll be right back."

Her now pale lips pressing into a thin line, she nodded weakly, feeling her stomach turn again. With that, he let her go and hurried for the hallway, Harley watching him go with forced calmness.

As soon as he disappeared from her view, she threw herself toward the sink to her right and barfed her guts up. When she felt that her stomach was finally empty of its contents a few moments later, she coughed out whatever was left in her mouth, gasping for air and tears flowing down her cheeks. She shakily pushed herself back up and wiped her lower lip with her sleeve, feeling like death— death with nerve endings.

She glanced up to see that Sherlock had returned with John's emergency medical kit from the bathroom closet. He glanced once at the puke at the bottom of the sink and merely hummed in thoughtfulness before opening the med bag. Harley was surprised that he wasn't grossed out by her throwing up, but then she remembered that this was a man who thrived on investigating cadavers every other day. This was nothing.

Sherlock pulled a pen light out of the kit and stood in front of her, gently lifting her head back up as he clicked the light on. "Look straight at me," he ordered. But as soon as he shined the light to her eyes, she couldn't help but let out a pained hiss and flinch away, but Sherlock kept his grip on her chin, keeping her in place. "Look at me," he repeated, turning the light toward her once more. Swallowing thickly, she reopened her eyes and looked straight at his face, trying as hard as she could not to turn away as Sherlock checked her eyes, moving the light around them a few times. It was all she could do to not start crawling up the walls.

Once he was finished, he sighed and turned the light off. "Just as I suspected— a slight concussion," He looked her up and down, "as well as some cuts and bruises."

Harley blinked dazedly up at him. Then she pointed at him, looking him up and down as well with a questioning gaze.

"Me? _I'm_ fine. I wasn't as close to the windows as you were," he told her.

 _Well, that's just bloody lucky of him,_ she thought with a sigh.

She watched him quietly as he put the pen light away. At first, he looked unsure what to do next. But then he took a clean rag, doused it in warm water, and started to dab at her sweating forehead. Then he told her to lean forward a bit as he removed her headband and gently ran his hand through her hair, and once he reached the spot where Harley had hit her head, she sucked in a deep breath in pain again. Luckily, it wasn't bleeding; it just had a rather nasty knot. So Sherlock took some cubes of ice from the freezer, put them in a plastic bag, wrapped it in the rag, and had her press it against the knot. While she did that, Sherlock went to work with cleaning the cuts she had; most of them were on her arms, and a few around the lower back of her neck, shoulders, and upper back. He used tweezers to pluck small shards of glass or debris out of the rather deeper cuts. Then he took some disinfectant from the bag, poured it onto a cotton swab, and proceeded to clean her cuts.

There were a few times, however, he would pause for a brief moment, as if he saw something, before continuing what he was doing.

The whole time, Harley simply sat there, but each time he pulled out some glass or dabbed disinfectant onto an open wound, she clenched her teeth tightly together, her hands curling into fists as she tried not to squirm or hiss in pain, fresh tears streaming down her face.

Sometime during the process, Mrs. Hudson had emerged to check on them, looking completely shaken up but otherwise okay. As soon as she saw Harley, though, her worry understandably increased, which also made Harley wonder just how bad she looked.

"Oh, my goodness! Are you all right?!" the landlady cried, already rushing over to them.

Harley wanted to let her know that she was fine (even though she honestly wasn't), but Mrs. Hudson's high-pitched voice made her visibly flinch and put a hand to the side of her head, feeling like her head was going to split open.

"Mrs. Hudson, do refrain from over reacting," Sherlock said, looking annoyed with her interference.

The two adults continued to exchange a few words amongst each other, while Harley breathed in and out evenly, waiting for the pain in her head to subside again. When she came back into focus, Mrs. Hudson was gone; Sherlock must've driven her away the way he usually did, and he continued to treat her wounds.

Eventually, he finished up with her, putting bandages on where they needed to go, and he helped her down from the countertop, her knees wobbling. She walked shakily across the room and leaned against the doorframe between the living room and the kitchen. She looked over the destruction in the living room with wide eyes. The entire room was matted with debris and broken glass and scattered papers, the windows were completely shattered, and dust and fibers coated the air. The building across the street from them was now reduced to almost nothing, the front part of the building facing them blackened and obliterated, and other parts of it still in flames. Outside, firetrucks, police cruisers, and ambulances blared their sirens as they hurried right toward their street.

In short, everything beyond the kitchen looked like a war zone.

She looked up at Sherlock when he came and stood beside her, her expression anxious and confused. _What happened?_

"Not sure what could've caused _that_ ," he said, staring out the broken windows with a pensive, yet troubled look. "The authorities are here now, though. We'll find out soon enough."

Harley stared at the chaos in the sitting room once more, before she shook her head, turned, and headed back through the kitchen. She put a hand to the wall as she clumsily made her way through the hallway, almost losing her balance.

"What are you doing?" she heard Sherlock ask as she opened the supply closet. She pulled out a broom and turned back, intent on at least trying to clean up some of the mess, only to find Sherlock standing in her way. "You're not serious, are you?" he said with a frown.

 _What? You had no qualms with me cleaning the paint off your windows,_ she thought. She tried to go around him, but he put a firm hand on the broom, stopping her. "Harley, don't worry about it."

She glared at him, wondering why he wouldn't just let her clean. She tried to walk again, but suddenly she felt another wave of dizziness overcome her, her vision blurring. She stumbled, almost falling to the floor, but Sherlock quickly caught her, wrapping an arm around her waist and holding her up. Her eyes screwed shut as she winced, pressing her face against his chest to stop the room from spinning.

Sherlock stiffened at the girl's actions, staring down bemusedly at her. Then he wrapped his other arm around her, his hand resting on the back of her head in an awkward attempt to comfort her. He cleared his throat a moment later. "Harley," he started again, "I know you're only trying to help, but you're hurt and concussed. The best thing for you to do right now is to get plenty of rest."

Harley slowly pulled her head away from Sherlock's chest, looking straight up at him. After a long moment, she let out a soft sigh in defeat and nodded lightly, her trembling grip on the broom loosening.

Sherlock carefully took the broom from her and placed it back in the closet. Then, after looking from the rest of the now shambolic flat to the girl in his arms, he sighed. "Come on."

He led her through the rest of the hallway until they reached the open room at the end, which was Sherlock's bedroom. He had her sit down on the bed, and when he noticed that she was picking at her now tattered and slightly blood-spotted shirt, he crossed over to his chest of drawers. Harley watched him in confusion until he pulled out the first white button-down shirt his hand touched and wordlessly threw it to her, landing in her lap. Then he left the room to give her some privacy.

Harley blinked at the space the consulting detective had just occupied, then she took a look around the room that she was visiting for the first time. It looked simple, but it was spacious enough— with his own bathroom, apparently. Lucky him. He also had his own personal bookshelf, with novels that were quite old and worn— which was a good sign; that meant that they were actually being used for their purpose, as well as other miscellaneous items. The only thing that truly stood out in the room was the large, framed picture of the periodic table next to the window across from her. Harley couldn't help but smile fondly. _Nerds of a feather._

Then she squeezed her eyes shut as she felt another sharp bout of pain course through her head, pinching the bridge of her nose with a grimace. Once the pain had passed, she opened her eyes again, gazing down at the shirt Sherlock gave her, and she sighed tiredly. She carefully shrugged her shirt off her, wincing a little as she did so, until she was left in a black tank top. She slipped on the button-down. Then she scowled, seeing that her hands didn't even make it out of the sleeves, the rest of the shirt flowing down just past her knees. She looked utterly ridiculous. _That's the setback of being a semi-hobbit,_ she thought in disgruntlement.

Sometime later, Sherlock returned with a box of tablets and a glass of water. He took one look at her and chuckled before placing the items down on the bedside. "You're so puny," he said in amusement, fixing the collar that hung loosely off her shoulders.

She shot him a look. _If I weren't so out of it, I'd smack you clear across the English Channel and make you live among the French._

He suddenly furrowed his eyebrows at her. "I have the distinct feeling that you just threatened me."

 _No, dear Sherlock, that wasn't a threat. That was a promise._

"Stop that."

She blinked, then smirked slightly. She bet that it irked him to know when she was thinking of something, but could not specify what exactly. She had to admit, though, he was getting a lot better at noticing. She'd have to be more careful.

She turned her attention to the medicine that he had brought in, then glanced up at him suspiciously.

"Painkillers— for your head and cuts," he explained before taking out two tablets and handing them to her, as well as the glass of water. "They'll make you drowsy, but you need sleep to treat your concussion anyway. I believe they call it 'killing two birds with one stone.'"

 _Don't act like you don't know common sayings, you're not completely inhuman,_ she mentally drawled. She stared down at the tablets before she closed her eyes and quickly popped them into her mouth, then washed them down with water, grimacing a little. She always did hate taking medicine.

"All right, then. Now just…lay there, I suppose," Sherlock said, glancing from the doorway to her. "I'll come and check on you later."

After she nodded lightly in agreement, he finally walked out of the room, leaving her alone.

Harley looked around at the bedroom for a second time, lost in thought. Then she carefully shifted until she was settled in the bed. She was tired— beyond tired— despite that her body was still trembling and wound as tight as a twisted tree trunk. She breathed in and out shakily, trying to relax and forget what just happened, staring at the wall ahead of her.

The painkillers must've begun to take effect, because her head began to feel heavy, not hurting as much anymore. She closed her eyes and let her exhaustion eventually take her into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

The last officer finally left after what seemed like endless tedious hours of questioning and double-checking and whatnot. Sherlock watched from the top of the stairs as Mrs. Hudson bid the officer goodbye. Once he was gone, Sherlock returned to the main part of the flat with a small huff. This was why he didn't want the paramedics to look them over and instead drove them away; because they were annoying and they took too long. Plus, Harley was already taken care of and was asleep, and he didn't want them barging in and most likely scaring her more than she already was. She probably wouldn't even let them come near her anyway.

He stood a few steps into the doorway, gazing at the sitting room that was still in ruins. The only thing that was different now was that the windows were now boarded up to help keep out the cold.

He sighed and rubbed his eyes. He still wasn't one-hundred-percent certain what caused that explosion across the street. The police were still investigating, their first suspicion of it being an act of terrorism, but from what Sherlock had heard, the evidence they were finding was leaning the theory more toward a simple gas leak. That must've been one powerful gas leak, then.

But Sherlock couldn't help the sinking feeling inside him— that maybe, just maybe, that explosion was meant to be some sort of message. For him.

Shaking his head, he turned away from the sitting room, heading through the kitchen, down the hall, and back into his room, opening the door quietly.

Harley was lightly sleeping, her small form curled up in a fetal position, her hands coiled into tight fists next to her face, which produced a tight-lipped frown as she dreamed.

It was almost saddening to see, but on the other hand, Sherlock didn't blame her for looking like that.

He thought back to when the explosion occurred. At first, he was disoriented after being knocked to the floor, but after about a minute or so, he managed to regather himself. Luckily for him, the wall between the windows had protected him from the worst of it, so he wasn't too hurt.

Until he'd remembered Harley, whom the last he saw her, was standing right by the left window.

He'd quickly shot up and turned toward the other side of the room. Squinting through the dust and smoke, he was able to make out a crumpled form lying on the floor right next to the knocked over side table by John's chair, making Sherlock deduce that the blast had thrown Harley clear over his chair and hit the table in the process.

Then his chest had tightened when he heard a wheezing, almost panicked and desperate noise coming from her, and he'd finally noticed that she was in the hyperventilating position, her body lightly rocking back and forth. He'd hurried over to her, but when he'd reached out to touch her, she'd flinched away, like she thought that he was going to hurt her, or like she was seeing something that he couldn't see, and that terrified her.

He didn't know what to do at first, and it wasn't like she could simply tell him what was wrong. Eventually, though, he'd managed to snap her out of it— for the most part, that is.

Sherlock suddenly came back into the present. With a small frown, he approached the bed and went to stand where Harley's back was facing him, thinking back to when he'd treated her wounds in the kitchen.

Slowly and carefully so as not to wake her, he reached out and brushed her hair up out of the way, as well as tugging the shirt collar down. Leaning in to get a closer look, he peered at something he never got the opportunity to notice before until that night.

There, hidden underneath her hair and clothes, was a long, deep, white scar that ran down the back of her head and ended somewhere along the nape of her neck. It was old, dated several years back. Five, six years most likely.

His observations ended a few seconds later, however, when Harley shifted in her sleep, one of her hands twitching a little as she let out a shuddered breath.

Sherlock pulled away and straightened. Studying her for a moment longer, he quietly left the room. He returned to the sitting room and took his violin out of its case (which, thankfully, wasn't damaged). He sat down in his dusted chair, plucking the strings delicately with his fingers, getting lost in his own thoughts once more with a scrutinizing frown.

Much like how he was getting more and more clues that her silence may not be as permanent as people thought, he was also finding hints that perhaps the cause of her mutism was something beyond— and possibly worse than— mere anxiety.

* * *

Harley woke up early the next morning feeling like she got run over by a train— a hundred-car train that backed up and ran her over a second time for good measure. Her muscles ached, her head ached. Everything ached.

She opened her eyes, and for a split second she panicked, finding herself in a different room from her own. But then the events of last night came flooding back to her; the explosion, getting hurt, Sherlock helping her.

And, of course, her anxiety attack.

She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. _And I was doing so well, too._

With effort, she pushed herself up, while also fighting off the wave of nausea that made her instinctively swallow. She looked over and saw her glass of water that was still half-empty from last night, and next to it was a new brand of painkillers. Not the kind that made you sleepy.

With a soft sigh, she took two of the pills and washed them down as swiftly as she could. Once that was done, she got up and padded her way toward the door, exiting the bedroom and immediately slipping into the bathroom. She thought she heard voices coming from the sitting room, but she didn't worry about that for now. After using the facilities, she stepped up in front of the mirror. She blinked, taking in her reflection for the first time since yesterday. Her hair was wildly sticking up in all directions, her skin a bit pale, a dark bruise on her forehead and along the side of her jawline, and a Band-Aid was stuck smack-dab in the middle of her left cheek. She tugged the collar of the shirt she was wearing out of the way, and saw more bandages around her shoulders and lower neck.

 _I'd say I've looked worse, but I can't, because I haven't,_ she mused.

She picked up one of John's combs and attempted to tame her hair. It took longer than it probably should've, but at least she made it look presentable in the end.

She made her way out of the bathroom and shuffled her way through the kitchen, rubbing her eyes with her sleeve groggily, trying to get back to herself as she made it into the now quiet sitting room.

But not for long.

"And who might this young girl be?"

She came to an abrupt halt, her eyes snapping back into focus at the sound of that unfamiliar voice. She slowly turned to the direction she heard it, and saw a rather strange sight. A man she had never seen before was sitting in the red chair. He wore a grey, posh-looking three-piece suit— with a pocket watch on a chain and everything— and a deep blue tie. His short, auburn hair was combed neatly. In his right hand he held a black umbrella by its wooden, curved handle. His face was clean-shaven and just…well, _clean_. Everything about him was clean, and proper, like he was used to the finer things in life.

He was currently staring at Harley with an unreadable, yet all-knowing expression that made her feel a tiny bit uneasy as he sat there, leisurely twirling the umbrella in his hand.

Sherlock, meanwhile, was sitting in his chair, now fully dressed, plucking away at the strings of his violin which lay against his chest. His eyes flickered toward her in acknowledgement once before he returned his gaze to the stranger, his face hardening into a scowl.

"Naïveté doesn't suit you, Mycroft. You know exactly who she is," he said tightly, in answer to the man's question.

The man lightly frowned at Sherlock before he turned back to Harley with a small, convincing smile that didn't quite reach his cold blue eyes— and also, in Harley's opinion, didn't look all that convincing.

"You'll have to forgive my little brother. He can be quite…blunt. Then again, you must be used to that by now, aren't you, Miss Harley Mabel Watson?" he told her, his voice smooth, in control, and drawing out her full name deliberately.

Harley could only raise her eyebrows at him. _What the hell…?_

She turned to Sherlock with a long, questioning look, but he merely rolled his eyes. No answers there, then. So she turned back to the stranger, who had stood up from the chair and took a step toward her.

"I'm Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes," he introduced himself, holding a hand out.

 _Ah…so this is the brother Sherlock mentioned,_ she mused, feeling a tint of relief now that she knew who he was. Truth be told, she imagined him to be taller.

After staring at his hand for a split second, she raised her head back up and kept her gaze steady as she reached out and shook his hand. He continued to stare at her even after they shook, almost like he was looking right through her very being. She could tell, however, that he was trying to avoid looking at her various scrapes and bruises— she even swore that she saw a grimace beginning to form on his face before it was gone in a flash.

 _Yeah, well, when you're just across the street from a building when it_ explodes _at you, you're gonna get a little banged up. Simple fact of life,_ she thought sardonically.

"You don't seem very afraid," he remarked, tilting his head ever so slightly.

She just looked at him, not responding at all.

Then Sherlock broke the silence. "Maybe, for once, someone doesn't find your pompousness intimidating, brother dear," he said mockingly.

Both Harley and Mycroft glanced at him, Harley with a somewhat confused look, and Mycroft with a brief, but cold glare.

 _Yeah…still not quite getting the hostility here,_ she thought, backing away from both of them slowly. She turned away from them and went to the table by the now boarded up windows, careful not to step on any glass. After searching over the mess on top of it, she dug her notebook out from under some papers and brushed the dust and bits of glass off of it. She turned back to find that Mycroft had sat back down in the chair, though he seemed to now take interest in watching her every move. _What's his deal?_

Trying to ignore him as best she could, she opened her notebook to a clean page, wrote in it, and approached Sherlock to show him:

 _Tea?_

"Please," he replied, flashing her a quick, slight smile before returning his scathing gaze onto his brother, who'd observed their exchange silently.

She walked past them into the kitchen, getting some tea started. As the kettle was brewing, she took the time to go up to her room to change clothes. Some things had been knocked over in her room from the blast as well, she noticed, like the side table that had her backpack on it. Carefully so as not to hurt herself some more, she changed into a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved purple shirt, slipped on her socks and shoes, and returned downstairs just in time to hear the kettle begin to whistle. She could also hear the two brothers in the living room talking amongst themselves, but couldn't make out what they were saying. The only thing she knew was that Sherlock sounded peeved.

Sighing, she got out two mugs, but after thinking for a moment, she received a third cup, figuring she ought to be courteous toward her newest acquaintance. She wasn't quite sure what to think of Mycroft so far. He wasn't exactly scary. Intimidating, a little, perhaps….actually, no, not really that either.

No, she just didn't trust him as far as she could throw him.

She prepared the tea: two sugars in Sherlock's, three sugars in hers. She paused, then shrugged and added a couple of extra sugars into Mycroft's mug. She didn't know why, but for some reason, he just seemed to her like the type of person who loved sugar.

She came into the living room with two cups. She handed one to Sherlock. Then she held the other out to Mycroft.

Mycroft looked at her curiously, then shook his head. "No, thank you, Miss Watson. I'm fine."

Harley did not move, instead narrowing her eyes at him somewhat reproachfully. _What, you too good for my commoner's tea?_

Mycroft stared blankly at her when she didn't pull away, as though he was surprised that she wasn't taking his rejection, and was instead insisting without even saying a single word.

"Better part of valor, Mycroft," Sherlock warned amusedly, taking a sip of his own tea, "Just take the cup."

Mycroft sent him a look before schooling his face once more, and, slowly, he retrieved the cup from her outstretched hand. Harley turned away, not checking to make sure he'd actually drink it, and sent a smirk and a wink toward Sherlock. Sherlock smirked right back before nodding once.

 _And that, my friends, is how you establish dominance…by being hospitable._

"Anyway," said Mycroft, locking his gaze back onto his brother, a serious glint in his eyes, "You simply must take the case, Sherlock. It is of upmost importance, and you are the only man for the job."

Harley glanced over at him questioningly, in which he noticed. "Didn't Sherlock tell you that I work for the British government?"

"He _is_ the British government," Sherlock corrected, "when he's not too busy freelancing with the CIA and the British Secret Service."

Mycroft was silent, not exactly confirming nor denying Sherlock's claim.

Harley quirked an eyebrow, studying him closer. _Oh. That explains a lot, actually._

Figuring that she best leave them to it, she returned to the kitchen and picked up her own cup, taking a long drink to warm up her sore body and wake her up even more.

Then, downstairs, the door suddenly opened only to slam shut, followed by thundering footsteps coming up the stairs.

"Harley! Sherlock!" John's anxious voice cried out as he made his way up and stopped in the entrance of the living room, breathing heavily, his face contorted with distress.

Both Holmes' turned in unison to acknowledge him. "John," Sherlock said in greeting.

But John still looked overly concerned. He looked all around him. "Where's—?" Then he finally spotted Harley in the kitchen, and instantly hurried over to her.

She was just about to wave hello when John practically ran into her with so much force she was almost knocked off her feet, wrapping his arms around her into a crushing embrace.

If Harley was capable of saying, "Ow," she'd repeat it at least a dozen times.

"I'm sorry," John whispered, his bear hug unwavering. "I'm so sorry. That was so stupid of me. I'll never leave you like that again."

 _Well, you know what they say about making promises you can't keep,_ she thought, still wincing a little in pain.

John finally was able to pull away from her. He looked her over, still looking guilty. "Are you all right?" he asked, running a finger over the bruise on her forehead.

She gently brushed his hand aside with a small, reassuring smile before taking her notebook and writing:

 _I'm fine. Just a few scratches, that's all._

She was underplaying it, of course, but if he truly knew what she went through, he'd go all mother-hen/doctor mode on her— which, as considerate as he was in that state, was also kind of intrusive and annoying.

After double-checking her over one last time, he gave another hug, which, thankfully, wasn't as hard as the last one. Then they entered the living room together.

"I saw it on the telly. What do you think caused it?" John asked Sherlock, referring to the explosion, while Harley went to sit at the table with her tea.

"Gas leak, apparently," Sherlock replied dismissively before turning his attention back to Mycroft, plucking at his violin strings again. "I can't."

"Can't?" Mycroft asked, an eyebrow raised.

 _Or won't?_ Harley questioned herself.

"The stuff I've got on is just too big; I can't spare the time."

"Never mind your usual trivia. This is of national importance," Mycroft urged, his voice just slightly reaching a sinister edge.

Sherlock was unmoved, though, flicking the strings again. "How's the diet?" he asked with a bite in his tone.

"Fine," Mycroft answered, his voice even.

Harley glanced between the two brothers, watching them interact. She was puzzled as to why Sherlock was turning down what seemed like to her a promising case. Isn't that what he wanted? Then again, if it was government related, she wouldn't blame him. She usually tried to avoid anything political if she could. Not really her area.

Mycroft turned his head toward John, who stood by the window examining the damage. "Perhaps _you_ can get through to him, John."

"What?"

"I'm afraid my brother can be very intransigent."

"If you're so keen, why don't you investigate it?" Sherlock grumbled.

"No, no, no, no, no," Mycroft said, gazing at his umbrella. "I can't possibly be away from the office at any length of time. Not with the Korean elections so…" he trailed off, just as all three occupants turned to stare at him. "Well…you don't need to know about that, do you?" he spoke again, smiling at all of them in a way that told them to simply forget what he'd just said.

Harley frowned at him from behind her cup. _Then why did you bring it up?_ Nice to see that secrecy was his number one priority.

"Besides, a case like this, it requires…legwork," Mycroft said distastefully, as though simply saying the word "legwork" brought a bitter taste in his mouth.

Harley stared at him flatly. _Wow,_ she thought. _How very reassuring to know where all my tax money is going to someday._

Deciding she'd heard enough, she finished off the rest of her tea before getting up and heading back into the kitchen, taking her sweet time in washing her cup while the three grown-ups continued to talk. She paused a few times to rub the back of her neck tenderly when a small about of pain flared back up.

A little later, when she felt she could no longer torture the cup by cleaning it within an inch of its life, she put it away in a cabinet, and shuffled toward the sitting room, leaning against the doorframe and folding her arms as she watched. Mycroft was out of the chair, now standing in the center of the room but still looking at Sherlock, who had stopped plucking his violin and moved on to applying rosin to his bow with a small cloth. Meanwhile, John was looking over files in a manila folder on the coffee table.

"The MOD is working on a new missile defense system— the Bruce-Partington Program, it's called," Mycroft explained. Then he glanced over at Harley when she came back into view, saying nothing else at first, as though unsure whether to continue their conversation in her presence. Harley simply stared back.

 _What? It's not like I'm going to tell anyone,_ she thought, arching a brow.

After another pause, he turned back to Sherlock and proceeded, "The plans for it were on a memory stick."

John chuckled. "That wasn't very clever."

The comment was rewarded with a smirk of amusement from Sherlock.

Mycroft smiled humorlessly. "It's not the only copy. But it _is_ secret. And missing."

"Top secret?"

" _Very_. We think West must've taken the memory stick. We can't possibly risk it falling into the wrong hands." He turned back to Sherlock. "You've got to find those plans, Sherlock." When Sherlock didn't respond, he lowered his voice and added with a scolding look, "Don't make me order you."

Sherlock took a sharp breath before raising his violin and situating it on his shoulder, looking up at his brother. "I'd like to see you try."

"Think it over." Mycroft turned and extended a hand to John, who stood up and took it. "See you very soon." He smiled at him almost creepily before turning toward Harley and approaching her. "Miss Watson," he said, holding his hand out again, in which she took. "Nice to finally meet you…and thank you for the tea." Then he smiled in the same way he did to John moments ago. "I feel we'll be seeing each other again real soon."

Her eyes narrowed slightly, but otherwise didn't give any indication that she was unsettled by his remark, though she couldn't help but wonder what exactly he meant by that.

As Mycroft went to grab his coat from the chair, Sherlock began to repeatedly play short, fast pieces of notes on his violin, intentionally sounding obnoxious as he glared at Mycroft the entire time. John sent him a look, brows furrowing, but Sherlock continued to play furiously. Harley watched the older brother make his leave, and when he was finally out the door, she allowed herself to relax a little, while Sherlock finished off his playing with a sharp note and a scowl.

 _Well, that was…different,_ she thought, going to sit in the chair Mycroft previously occupied.

John sat down on the coffee table, waiting until he heard the door downstairs shut before breaking the silence. "Why'd you lie?" he asked Sherlock.

The consulting detective looked at him inquiringly.

"You've got nothing on— not a single case. That's why the wall took a pounding. Why did you tell your brother you were busy?"

Sherlock shrugged, scratching the side of his head with the bow. "Why shouldn't I?"

John and Harley shared a look. "Oh, nice," John proclaimed, making Sherlock pause. "Sibling rivalry, now we're getting somewhere."

 _Hmm, maybe I_ should _be grateful that I'm an only child,_ Harley thought. _The last thing I need is even more family drama, if it would be anything like what those two have._

Sherlock looked like he was about to argue, but the sound of a mobile phone ringing stopped him from doing so. Putting down his bow, he pulled his phone out of his jacket and put it to his ear. "Sherlock Holmes."

He listened to the person on the other end for a moment before he lifted his head up, his eyes lighting up and a smile beginning to coax his lips. "Of course. How could I refuse?" he asked, and before he could hear an answer, he shut off the phone and shot up from his chair. "Lestrade. I've been summoned. Coming?" he told the two Watsons rapidly as he strode towards the door.

"If- if you want me to," John said, thinking he was only talking to him.

"Of course," said Sherlock. He draped his coat and scarf over his arm and smiled at the two of them. "I'd be lost without my blogger and silent companion."

Harley blinked, taking in what he'd just called her, before she felt something akin to pride swell up inside her.

"Um, Sherlock…" John started in a warning tone, eyes moving from him to Harley.

"Lestrade said it was only a note for me. Shouldn't be anything too serious. She'll be fine."

John was still uncertain at first, but then Harley turned to him with her pleading look— the one he could never refuse. He sighed. "Well, if it's only that…"

With a triumphant smile, Harley quickly went to retrieve her coat, scarf, and backpack, before rejoining the two men as they descended the stairs.

Outside, the entire street was still blocked off by the police and still quite a mess from the blast, so they had to walk down the road before they could gain access to a cab.

After they'd ducked under the police tape, Harley wrote in her book and showed Sherlock:

 _Silent companion. I like that._

Sherlock smirked at her, before reaching an arm out to stop a cab for the three of them. Harley secretly felt that there would be something more to what Lestrade had called Sherlock about, other than just a note. Something big, even.

But Harley wasn't too worried. After everything she's seen and been through the past week, she knew that Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, was on the case; along with her uncle, the soldier and blogger.

And her, the silent companion— however temporary it be.

* * *

 **A/N- So Harley's finally met the Queen of Sweets, Piecroft himself. Aaannnd...she's not all that impressed by him. Hahaha! Don't worry, it's mostly because she's too occupied with her own crap to be bothered by him for now. Despite Harley's current feelings toward him, I actually really like Mycroft. He's not just a boss, he is THE boss.**

 **Speaking of, I can't really think of a character in _Sherlock_ that I even sort of dislike. I love ALL the characters! **

**(Well, except for maybe General Shan. She was just an idiot.)**

 **Thanks for reading, my ripe little cabbages! Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to watch Deadpool.**


	24. Let the Games Begin

**A/N- Aye! Welcome back, fellow readers. Are you ready to play? I am! We get to see Lestrade again! YAY!**

 **Disclaimer: I only own my OC. _Sherlock Holmes_ belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the two man-chidrens who are just as obsessed as we are: Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

The meds were definitely kicking in now.

Harley's headache, as well as the pain that stung from her cuts, had finally numbed away halfway on the cab ride to Scotland Yard. Good thing, too. It wouldn't do for her to help on a case if she was distracted and miserable the whole time.

"So, what did you think of Mycroft?" John asked her as they rode through the city, trying to start up a conversation.

Harley tensed, glancing at him, then looked away, not responding at all. Sherlock, who sat on her other side, noticed her hesitance to answer and smirked.

"So…that's a negative on liking him?" John asked.

"Of course, it's Mycroft," Sherlock said.

"Now, I know he can come off as a bit unnerving at first, but…"

He trailed off when Harley turned to look right at him. Then she swiftly wrote down:

 _Not only that, but he's imperious, snobbish, way too clean for his own good, and to top it all off: he works in the government. He's practically my worst nightmare come to life._

She'd held it out for both men to read it. Once they did, John burst into laughter, and Sherlock actually smiled, chuckling a little under his breath.

"Well, then, at least now I know what you're not looking for in your dream guy or girl," said John, nudging her slightly.

Harley rolled her eyes fondly with a small smile. Then she looked over at Sherlock to find him sharing the same smile as well. She figured that he was just glad that she wasn't crazy about his brother.

 _Boys, boys, boys,_ she thought amusedly.

They finally arrived at New Scotland Yard several minutes later. After paying the cabbie, they hurried inside, mostly because Sherlock was practically running, eager to take on whatever new case Lestrade had to offer and the two Watsons trying to keep up. John let out a huff, half to catch his breath and the other half in annoyance. Harley didn't care too much; she was just glad something interesting came up on her last week of vacation.

They made it up to the floor where Lestrade's office was, only to find the Detective Inspector himself waiting for them at the front of the general office.

"Thanks for coming," he told the consulting detective. Then he smiled upon seeing Harley when she and John caught up. "Hey, Harley. Nice to see you again." He held a hand out for a high-five. At first, Harley was surprised, though pleasantly so, not really used to people other than John being so friendly like so. Then, with a smile back, she slapped her hand into his.

"Whoa, you all right there?" he asked her, noticing her bruises and bandages.

 _You should see the other guy,_ she wrote in a joking manner, hoping it would ease any concern he had, and it worked. After reading her message, his smile reappeared, looking relieved that she was otherwise okay.

John watched the two interact somewhat confusedly. "You two have already met?"

"A couple of days ago, yes, when she and Sherlock stopped by to drop off a case."

As they started to walk across the floor toward his office, John shot Harley a pretend-accusing look. "First the head, now I find out you've met Lestrade. You told me you 'just hung out', you little liar." He put her in a headlock under one arm and lightly grinded his knuckles on top of her head as he dragged her along. She struggled to get out of his grip with a grin on her face.

 _I didn't lie. I just refrained from revealing the whole truth,_ she thought before he finally released her.

"Boring day, my foot," John mumbled, earning another grin from her.

They quickened their pace a bit to catch back up Sherlock and Lestrade, now getting involved in their conversation.

"You like the funny cases, don't you? The surprising ones?" Lestrade asked.

"Obviously," Sherlock answered.

"Well, you'll love this, then. That explosion at Baker Street…"

"Gas leak, yes?"

"No."

Harley stopped for the briefest of moments in surprise, before proceeding onwards. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Sally Donovan watching them as they passed by her desk. Remembering her last encounter with the woman, along with the comments left by her on John's blog, Harley didn't give her the satisfaction of even acknowledging her, instead promptly keeping her gaze straight ahead.

"No?" Sherlock asked Lestrade in confusion as they finally entered the confines of his office.

"No, made to _look_ like one. Hardly anything left of the place, except for a strong box— a _very_ strong box. And inside it, was this." Lestrade pointed at a lone, small but thick white envelope lying on his desk, addressed to Sherlock Holmes in neat, blue ink.

Harley stared at the envelope, a strange, unpleasant feeling growing in her stomach as she did so.

"You haven't opened it?" Sherlock asked.

Lestrade shrugged. "It's addressed to you, isn't it? We've x-rayed it; it's not booby-trapped."

"How reassuring," Sherlock mumbled as he picked up the envelope, carefully examining it in his hands as he walked across the room to look at it better underneath a lamplight.

"Nice stationary," he observed. "Bohemian, from the Czech Republic. No fingerprints?"

"No," Lestrade answered.

"She used a fountain pen. Parker Duofold, iridium nib."

"She?" John questioned.

"Obviously."

John turned away in exasperation. "Obviously," he repeated.

Harley frowned a little. _Men can have elegant handwriting, too, but I guess it's all down to probability here._

Sherlock picked up a letter opener from the desk, intent on seeing what was inside. Harley didn't take her eyes off the envelope even as Sherlock began to cautiously tear it open, that unsettling feeling not dying down. She suddenly felt that it shouldn't even be touched. But, of course, that wasn't going to happen. It had to be looked at. Harley rubbed the back of her neck, down to where her bandages were, as another disturbing thought occurred to her: that explosion was planned to look like an accident, with precision. That meant that someone _meant_ to blow them up— on purpose. She shuddered before she backed up a bit, away from the envelope, until she was standing side-by-side with her uncle, and took his hand.

John glanced down at her, noticing her discomfort, and gently squeezed her hand before looking back up just as Sherlock opened up the envelope. The consulting detective peered in, and his lips slightly parted in surprise before he pulled out an iPhone with a pink, rubber case surrounding it.

All four people in the office gaped at the object with recognition.

"But that's…that's the phone. The pink lady's phone," John said in shock, breaking the silence.

"What, from the _Study in Pink_?" Lestrade asked.

"Well, obviously, it's not the same phone, but it's supposed to look like…" Sherlock stopped observing the phone abruptly, turning to face Lestrade. " _A Study in Pink_? You read his blog?" he demanded the Detective Inspector indignantly.

John took a sudden interest in his shoes, breathing out through his mouth.

"Of course I read his blog— we all do!" Lestrade exclaimed. "Do you really not know that the Earth goes around the sun?"

Sally Donovan, who had come into the office to use the fax machine, turned toward Sherlock and sniggered loudly. John looked away uncomfortably, while Harley and Sherlock stared her down with a pointed glare until she was out of the room.

"It isn't the same phone. This one's brand new," Sherlock continued, going back to the phone, observing the connection sockets and buttons on the sides. "Someone's gone to a lot of trouble to make it look like the same phone, though. Which means, your _blog_ …" he fixed John with accusing look, "…has a far wider readership."

Sherlock looked away before John could say anything, and turned on the phone.

" _YOU HAVE ONE NEW MESSAGE,"_ an automated voice said from the phone, and then came the sound of the Greenwich Time Signal; four short, high-pitched beeps followed by an even longer beep.

At first, no one said anything, not sure what to make of the message.

"Is that it?" John asked.

"No, that's not it," Sherlock answered quietly, just before the phone bleeped, indicating an addition to the message. They all gathered around him to see what it was, only to find that it was a sent photograph of an empty, dirty room with peeling, moldy wallpaper and a pitiful-looking fireplace. The place looked like a dump.

Harley had no idea about the picture, but she couldn't shake the feeling about those pips, like she should know something about them. She frowned, trying to think.

"What the hell are we supposed to make of that? An estate agent's photo and the bloody Greenwich pips?" Lestrade asked with exasperation.

That's when it hit Harley on why the pips seemed so important in this situation. She instantly recalled reading about something to do with using pips as messages in a book on Western world history— though not really the same way that she's just heard— or more as warnings. Warnings that something terrible was lurking around the corner for the receiver of the message.

Snapping out of her train of thought, she tugged on Sherlock's coat to get his attention. She quickly scrawled in her notebook and showed him, hoping that her slight vagueness would be enough to get him to understand what she was trying to get across:

 _Orange pips. Warning._

Thank goodness, he did. He nodded grimly at her. "Yes. Yes, it is."

"What? What is it?" John asked, looking between the two of them confusedly.

"It's a warning," Sherlock explained.

"A warning?"

"Some secret societies used to send dried melon seeds, _orange pips_ —" he glanced at Harley briefly before looking back at John, "—things like that. Five pips."

Harley bit her bottom lip, feeling her anxiety gradually rising again. Yes, she remembered. In that history book, she read a chapter about some secret orders that used dried seeds, or pips, to send warnings among their victims before sufficiently ending them. One group that she read about in particular that used to do such a thing was the Ku Klux Klan, a treacherous society founded in the former confederate states of America after its Civil War that eventually branched out, silently wreaking mayhem upon those who opposed to their views.

Just another one of the many reasons Harley wasn't a huge fan of politics.

"They're warning us it's going to happen again," Sherlock said. He gazed down at the phone thoughtfully for another moment, before brandishing it and starting toward the door. "I've seen this place before."

"H-Hang on," John stammered, as he and Harley started to follow him out. "What's going to happen again?"

In answer to John's question, Sherlock merely turned, threw his hands up in the air, and exclaimed dramatically, "Boom!" before turning back and walking on.

John looked surprised for a second, before sighing and continuing to follow him. Harley looked back just in time to see Lestrade grab his coat and hurry to catch up with them. Harley smiled a little, glad that he was coming with, and slowed down her pace slightly until he was in step with her.

"Heh, so much for seeing each other again with no cases involved," Lestrade told her with a somewhat nervous laugh, referring to their conversation a couple of days ago.

Harley's smile widened, before writing in her book: _Yeah, but where's all the excitement in that?_

"True, I suppose."

With a final shared smile, they caught up with the ex-army doctor and consulting detective, following them out of the building and toward the curb, Sherlock already waving down a taxi cab.

There was something kind of mystical about the way Sherlock could so very easily get a cab, Harley had noticed.

Since there were four people now (and half of them were rather burly), it was going to be rather crowded in the cab. So John offered to sit up in front, while Harley was practically squished in between Sherlock and Lestrade. Sherlock gave the cabbie the address back to Baker Street, and they were on their way. The whole ride back, Harley sat in the middle sullenly, glaring straight ahead, not enjoying feeling like a sandwich at all.

Finally, after what seemed like forever, they pulled up to Baker Street, which had recently been reopened, the police gone. They piled out, paid the cabbie, and went inside 221, led by Sherlock. However, instead of going upstairs, Sherlock veered left on the ground floor until he led them through another corridor, past Mrs. Hudson's flat, and toward a new, locked door that Harley had never noticed before. On it was an old plaque that simply said, 221C, leading down to the basement flat.

Sherlock stared at the door for a brief moment before turning his head and shouting out, "Mrs. Hudson!"

The landlady in question came out to see what was the matter, and after giving an explanation of the situation, she retreated into her flat to look for the keys to the flat. While they waited for her, Sherlock ran a hand over the padlock on the door, examining it closely, before Mrs. Hudson reappeared with a set of keys.

"You had a look, didn't you, Sherlock? When you came to see about your flat?" the landlady asked him as he took the keys from her and began to unlock the door.

"The door's been opened— recently," Sherlock remarked, eyeing the lock once more before proceeding to unlock it.

"No, it can't be. That's the only key," Mrs. Hudson argued.

Harley narrowed her eyes at the lock, noticing some faint scratches around the edges of them, though she wasn't sure how recent they were. _Some people don't need keys to get into locked places,_ she thought, feeling a growing concern that someone had recently snuck into the building without any of their knowledge.

"I can't get anyone interested in this flat. It's the damp, I expect. That's the curse of basements," Mrs. Hudson went on as Sherlock turned the key on the last lock and pulled open the door. He immediately went inside, followed by Harley, John and Lestrade— Harley shooting Mrs. Hudson and apologetic look at the landlady as they were basically ignoring her. "I had a place once when I was first married. Black mold up the walls…" she trailed off when Lestrade, who took up the rear, closed the door on her, leaving her alone in the hallway.

The four of them walked down a flight of old, creaky stairs until Sherlock slowly opened the door, and they all walked into a room that looked almost exactly like the one in the photograph. Harley guessed that it was supposed to be a living room, but it was so moldy and dirty, the only source of light that it had was the sunlight that bled through the faded curtain on the high window. The stale, dank smell nearly made her gag.

 _This is the kind of place where people keep hostages, or murder someone,_ she thought, beginning to get goosebumps. Which wouldn't be bad for thriller story ideas, but now it was just unsettling.

The only thing that really stood out in the murky room was a pair of trainers that have been placed right in the middle of the floor, its toes directed right at them.

All of them stared at the shoes in puzzled silence.

"Shoes…" John muttered.

Sherlock began to walk toward the shoes before John warned him, "He's a bomber, remember."

Sherlock paused for a moment, before cautiously continuing to approach the shoes. He slowly crouched down and leaned forward, hands on the floor. Harley stayed back with John and Lestrade, watching intensely as Sherlock examined the shoes closely.

Then she flinched in surprise when the sound of an old-fashioned phone began to ring loudly throughout the room. Taking a breath to calm herself, she watched as Sherlock carefully stood back up, taking out the pink phone from his pocket, which was where the ringing was coming from. She saw that the caller ID was a blocked number, which did nothing to relieve her nerves.

After a moment, Sherlock answered the phone, putting it on speaker. "Hello?" he said softly.

For a second, there was no answer. But then there came the sound of ragged breathing from the other end.

And then…

 _"H…H-Hello…s-sexy…"_ a female voice spoke shakily, followed by muffled sobs.

Harley felt her blood run cold at what she'd just heard, her heart sinking fast.

"Who is this?" Sherlock asked quietly.

 _"I've…sent you…a little puzzle…just to say, hi,"_ the woman said tearfully.

Harley's eyes flicked to the shoes for a brief moment, before locking her gaze back onto the phone. She slipped her hand into John's.

"Who's talking? Why are you crying?"

 _"I…I'm not crying. I'm...typing….and this…stupid bitch…is reading it out."_ The woman sobbed once more.

Harley stared at the phone, her eyes now wide and her lips parting slightly. _Holy…_ she thought in disbelief.

"The curtain rises," Sherlock said softly.

"What?" John asked.

"Nothing."

"No, what did you mean?" John insisted, his hand tightening around Harley's.

"I've been expecting this for some time," Sherlock explained, turning towards John to talk to him before turning back to the phone, from which the woman continued to cry.

 _"Twelve hours…to solve…my puzzle, Sherlock…or I'm going to be…so…naughty."_

And with a final sob, the phone went dead on the other line, leaving a heavy, horror-filled silence between the four people in the room.

Harley didn't take her eyes off the phone as she tried to steady her breathing and slow down her heart rate, repressing the growing feeling of dismay and alarm. She swallowed hard. She should've known— should've known that something like this was going to happen. Much like how the _Blind Banker_ case started, this has just molded from a simple, ordinary problem into something much bigger than she could've ever imagined.

But now she couldn't shake the feeling that this…this was going to be on a more personal level toward her uncle's detective flatmate, since the person responsible called out to him specifically, and that it was only going to get more complicated and intense from here.

And Harley did not know it yet at the time, but it was eventually going to be on a more personal level toward her as well.

* * *

 **A/N- So. Quite a shorter chapter when compared to the most previous ones. I've come to notice that most of the chapters taking place in an episode _do_ tend to be shorter than the ones not in an episode (mostly because I get more freedom to add the things I want in those chapters without much limitations). **

**However, I do go by a personal guideline that (with the exception of chapter three) each chapter be _at least_ three-thousand words, at minimum. So I'm not too bothered by it.**

 **Thank you to everyone who is reading and following along! And I especially want to thank those who have taken their time to message me, whether it's to thank me for writing this crazy adventure, give very helpful advice, or to simply say hello! You guys are phenomenal and I love you!**

 **See y'all in the next chapter! :D**


	25. That One Guy From IT

**A/N- 'Eyyyyy! We've reached the twenty-fifth chapter of this insane train! We're half-way to fifty! WOOHOO!**

 **So let's celebrate by continuing onwards with the _Great Game_. We get to meet up with Molly Hooper once more in this one! *Squees***

 **Also, Harley gets to meet Jimmy for first time...and I'm sorry to say, not the last time.**

 **Disclaimer: I only own my OC. (You know, in retrospect, this being a _fanfiction_ website and all, it's pretty much a given that I do not in fact own _Sherlock_. So the whole concept of me adding a disclaimer every chapter is a bit redundant, don't you think? Or am I overthinking it? Whatever).**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

One could only imagine a certain amount of tension that can circulate in one room, with only a few select people, and have it feel like time itself has stopped completely— and all because of a simple pair of shoes and a phone call. To Harley, it certainly felt overwhelming at first.

Sherlock was the first to move and speak after the intense silence that followed the crying woman's call, putting the pink phone back in his pocket before bending down to carefully pick up the trainers. Then he said something about taking the shoes to St. Bart's to run some tests over them, but before he could leave, Lestrade stopped him and began to argue that he couldn't just take what was obviously evidence.

But Harley wasn't listening to the two men quarreling with each other. She looked up at her uncle, still holding his hand, and he looked back at her, not paying attention to the other adults talking either.

Then Harley slowly removed her hand from John's, taking her notebook out and writing in it. Looking back up to meet her uncle's concerned gaze, she gave it to him to read:

 _I imagine you want me to stay here, while you guys try to work this all out._

She waited while he read and thought it over. Even though she was curious about how this all was going to play out and wanted to help however she could, she also would understand if he didn't want her to, especially considering how serious it's gotten, and so quickly.

John looked at the shoes now in Sherlock's hands, then at the rest of the basement flat, a deep frown etched upon his features. Then he closed his eyes and shook his head before turning back to his niece, his frown diminished but the worry lines on his face still clearly visible.

"Some maniac was able to break into this flat undetected— just to leave a pair of shoes," he said evenly. "No. You're staying right by me until I know for sure that it's safe. You understand?"

Harley stared at him in bewilderment, before she quickly snapped out of it and nodded to show that she did understand.

They turned back to Sherlock and Lestrade, who appeared to finally finish up their conversation, Lestrade with a look like he'd given up trying to argue with Sherlock, rubbing his forehead tiredly.

"All right, fine. I'll get back to the station and see if I can find any leads on the hostage. You notify me on anything you find regarding the shoes," he said.

And so with that said and done, they each filed back up the stairs, out of the dirty basement flat, through the hall, and outside into the street. Lestrade flagged down a cab intent on heading back to the Yard. Harley waved goodbye to him before she, John, and Sherlock got a cab of their own and headed toward St. Bart's.

It was unusually quiet between the three of them on the ride to Bart's. Of course, silence was typical coming from Harley, and sometimes even Sherlock when he wasn't explaining something, but John normally would talk to either one of them about anything, but not even he had anything to say at the moment. All of them had too much on their minds to talk or use other means of communication amongst themselves. So instead they simply sat in tense silence until they arrived at the enormous hospital. They went in and ventured through the corridors, headed for the laboratory. On the way, they ran into Molly Hooper, who had just got on her lunch break. Harley smiled and waved hello, pleased to see the pathologist again. Molly waved back with her own smile before Sherlock gave a brief explanation for why they needed the lab. Molly bid him good luck, her smile now bashful, before they parted ways, the consulting detective and the Watsons entering the familiar lab room.

Sherlock put the trainers down on the lab table before going to the cabinets and drawers to get the tools necessary to help further examine them, such as some petri dishes and scalpels and such. Then he replaced his black gloves with nitrile gloves, ready to work.

The next several minutes passed by slowly, with Sherlock studying the trainers intently, untying the laces to observe them more closely, then scraping off any residue from the soles with the scalpel and carefully placing them in a petri dish. Meanwhile, John would frequently wander around the large room, often ending up pacing back and forth in front of the table, as he waited in anxious silence for Sherlock to finish up and find something.

Harley, on the other hand, was sat down on the floor a little ways away from the two of them, her back against the table, her backpack and book lying beside her. She had her head resting back against the side of the table. She could feel her headache gradually filtering its way back. She closed her eyes with a slight frown, trying to block out the mild pain and regather some of her muddled thoughts. She was fortunate that it was relatively quiet in the lab; the only sound that ever occurred was the occasional beep of Sherlock's phone going off, alerting him of a text message. She let out a soft sigh, relishing in this momentary silence during such a desperate time. She began to doze off...until she started to see the exact same image she saw after she'd hit her head the night before: a large, blurred figure, coming right at her. Then she quickly jolted herself awake before it could reach her. Harley stared ahead at the drawers in front of her, taking slow, calming breaths as her tense form shook. Then she peeked around to make sure that neither of the adults had noticed what'd happened. Luckily, Sherlock was too engrossed in what he was looking at in the microscope, occasionally glancing at the computer screen next to him as it scanned for results of the dirt particles found on the shoes; while her uncle was still striding around the room, lost within his own thoughts.

When her body finally relaxed a little, she brought her knees up to her chest, resting her arms and head on them as she felt her throat beginning to close up. _God, what is wrong with me?_ she thought despairingly.

"So, who do you suppose it was?" she heard John speak up a few minutes later.

"Hmm?" Sherlock grunted.

"The woman on the phone— the crying woman."

"Oh, she doesn't matter. She's just a hostage," Sherlock replied dismissively, adjusting the lens of the microscope. "No lead there."

"For God's sake, I wasn't thinking about leads," John said in exasperation.

"You're not going to be much use to her," Sherlock retorted.

Harley lifted her head from her knees and rubbed her eyes with a tired sigh. Of course, the silence was too good to last. She pulled herself back up to her feet, swinging her bag onto her back, and made her way over to Sherlock's side, peering curiously at the screen as it looked for a match in the residue. She sat down in one of the high stools, placing her notebook in front of her. Sherlock's gaze flicked toward her briefly with an imperceptible frown, before returning to the specimen in the microscope.

"Are- Are they trying to trace it— trace the call?" John asked. It was becoming more evident that he was immensely apprehensive about this entire ordeal.

"The bomber's too smart for that. Pass me my phone," Sherlock said when his phone went off with yet another text alert.

John looked around the room. "Where is it?"

"Jacket."

Harley couldn't stop herself from smiling as she watched her uncle straighten, his face contorting into one of disbelief that translated into something between, "Are you kidding me right now?" or "I'm going to bloody murder you."

He started to march toward them, but Harley held a hand up and shook her head, stopping him, as her way of saying, "Allow me," as she knew that John would be less than gentle in his current state. Remembering which side of the jacket he usually kept his phone in, she carefully reached in and pulled it out without disturbing him too much. Then she handed it over to John.

"Ta," John said to her before turning on the phone to check for messages. "Text from your brother," he told Sherlock.

"Delete it," Sherlock instantly replied.

"Delete it?"

"Missile plans are out of the country. Nothing we can do about it."

Harley peeked over at the message on the screen, which read:

 **RE: BRUCE-PARTINGTON PLANS**

 **Any progress on Andrew West's death?**

 **Mycroft**

"Well, Mycroft think's there is," John said. "He's texted you… _eight times_. Must be important."

Sherlock raised his head in annoyance. "Then why didn't he cancel his dental appointment?"

Both Watsons looked at him with puzzled expressions. "His what?" John asked.

"Mycroft never texts if he can talk. Look, Andrew West stole the missile plans, tried to sell them, got his head smashed in for his pains. End of story. The only mystery is this: why is my brother so determined to bore me when somebody else is being so delightfully interesting."

John turned the phone off before looking at Sherlock sternly. "Try and remember there's a woman here who might die, Sherlock."

"What for?" Sherlock looked back at him just as sternly. "This hospital's full of people dying, _Doctor_. Why don't you go and cry by their bedside and see what good it does then?"

Harley closed her eyes and rubbed her temples with her middle and index fingers while they argued over her, exhaling in silent frustration. She was starting to see why people thought they were a couple now, the way they would spat and go at each other. And she most definitely didn't want to be stuck in the middle of it.

Fortunately, before anything else was said, the computer in front of Harley went off, startling her. She reopened her eyes to find the screen flashing **SEARCH COMPLETE** in bold, red letters.

"Ah!" Sherlock cried triumphantly. At that very same moment, the door burst open and Molly came in with her bright smile.

"Any luck?" she asked.

"Oh, yes!" Sherlock said in delight as Molly approached them and stood next to Harley, who adjusted the position of the screen so that she could see it better.

Then, before the door could close all the way, another person entered the room but then stopped with an apologetic look at all of them. "Oh! Sorry, I didn't…" he said sheepishly.

"Jim! Hi!" Molly said cheerfully upon seeing the man, who still looked unsure if he should be there. "Come in, come in!"

Harley glanced up at the new person who closed the door and started to make his way toward them. A well-groomed man, probably in his early thirties, with short dark hair, dark eyes, and wearing a grey T-shirt and brown slacks, his bright underwear showing itself a little above the waistline.

"Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes," Molly introduced, rather proudly, as Jim stood beside her.

"Ah!" Jim exclaimed in realization.

"And this is Harley," Molly gestured to the girl with a smile.

"Hello," Jim greeted her, grinning friendlily. Harley locked eyes with him momentarily before she nodded once and turned back to the computer, ignoring the mild yet sudden sense of unease that rose in her stomach.

"And, uh…sorry," Molly said to John, obviously not having been properly acquainted with the ex-army doctor beforehand.

"John Watson. Hi," John said monotonously.

"Hi," said Jim, staring right at Sherlock. "So _you're_ Sherlock Holmes. Molly's told me all about you. You on one of your cases?"

At the incredibly dreamy tone in his voice, Harley glimpsed back at Jim with a small frown as he made his way around them until he was standing at Sherlock's other side. She noticed his admiring, almost worshipping expression as he gazed at the consulting detective.

 _My gay-dar sense is tingling,_ she mused.

"Jim works in IT upstairs," said Molly. "That's how we met— office romance." She and Jim giggled.

Harley's frown deepened. _Wait, so he's_ not _gay? And Molly_ doesn't _like Sherlock that way after all?_

Then Sherlock glanced round at Jim briefly before returning to the microscope. "Gay," he said bluntly.

Harley looked at him, an eyebrow raised. Meanwhile, Molly's smile faded. "Sorry, what?" she asked.

"Nothing, um…hey," Sherlock said, smiling falsely at Jim.

"Hey," the man said with a grin, seemingly ignorant of Sherlock's previous statement. It may have just been Harley's imagination, but she thought she saw Jim's eyes flicker between Sherlock and her for the briefest of moments. He lowered his hand toward the table, intent on leaning against it, but instead his hand made contact with the metal dish and accidently knocked it over. It fell to the floor with a loud clash, which did nothing to help Harley's growing headache. She winced before glaring at Jim irritably as he scrambled to pick it up.

"Sorry! Sorry!" Jim said with a nervous laugh as he straightened and placed the dish back on the table. Then he lifted his head and met Harley's gaze. Schooling her face so that she didn't look as annoyed, she turned away with a sigh and opened up her notebook to a random page, hoping to distract her mind from the pain.

"Well, I'd better be off," she heard Jim mutter, followed by him walking around her until he was by Molly again. "I'll see at the Fox, about six-ish?" he asked her.

"Yeah," Molly replied excitedly.

"Bye," Jim said.

"Bye," Molly whispered.

"It was nice to meet you."

There was a long, awkward silence that followed. Harley kept her head down toward her notebook. _You know, usually, that's an obvious cue for you to scram,_ she thought drily, flipping a page.

Thankfully, John broke the silence by saying, "You, too," speaking for Sherlock and her.

A couple of seconds later, she heard him finally making his leave. She dared a glance up at him as he walked around the table toward the door, and she had to fight down the flinch that threatened to surface, because he was glancing at her as well. When they locked eyes with each other, he gave her what she supposed was a big, reassuring smile.

Which, call her crazy, didn't feel very reassuring.

She quickly averted her gaze, peering intently at her notebook with a frown. It wasn't until she heard the door shut across the room did she lift her head back up, her muscles loosening.

 _What was that all about?_ she wondered.

"What do you mean gay? We're together," Molly said after another moment of silence, her smile now tight.

"And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly. You've put on three pounds since I last saw you," said Sherlock, looking at her.

Now Molly's smile was gone completely. "Two and a half."

"No, three."

"Sherlock…" John said in a warning tone.

But Molly had cut him off angrily. "He's not gay! Why do you have to spoil…he's not!"

Harley looked at the pathologist with a soft gaze, feeling sorry for her.

Sherlock snorted. "With that level of personal grooming?"

"Because he puts a bit of product in his hair? _I_ put product in my hair!" John argued incredulously.

Harley shot him a look. _What are you implying there, Uncle?_

"No, you _wash_ your hair. There's a difference," Sherlock countered, shaking his head. "No, no. Tinted eyelashes— clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines; those tired clubber's eyes. Then there's his underwear."

"His underwear?" Molly asked in confusion.

"Visible above the waistline— _very_ visible. Very particular brand. That, plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish here…" he lifted the dish and showed Molly the small card with the phone number on it, and Harley closed her eyes in dismay. _Oh, no._ "…and I'd say you better break it off now and save yourself the pain."

Molly said nothing, her lips pursing. Her eyes flicked from John back to Sherlock, before she spun around and ran out of the room.

Harley made a quick decision then.

Without looking back at the two men, Harley shoved her stool away from the table, grabbing her notebook, and hurried over to the door. She hardly registered her uncle say sarcastically to the consulting detective, "Charming! Well done," before she ran out of the lab and into the corridor.

Looking up and down the hallway for a moment, she started heading toward the nearest bathroom— the universal sanctuary for all females when in need of a good cry.

She slowly opened the door and stepped in, feeling like she was walking into a lion's den. She could hear some sniffling from one of the stalls. Swallowing hard, she approached the stall, noticing that Molly didn't even bother to lock the door during her flight. Poor woman.

She opened the door and saw Molly with her back facing her, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed. When the door creaked, however, Molly quickly turned around. Upon seeing Harley, she quickly wiped her tear-filled face, but she was still shaking, tears still pouring from her eyes.

"H-H-Harley!" Molly sputtered, trying to look composed, but failing miserably. "I-I'm fine. You…you…" she gave up trying to speak, her crying preventing her from forming a proper sentence.

Harley just stood there, staring at her sympathetically. She didn't know what to do at first, not having any experience in comforting someone before. But this was Molly Hooper. She was just too nice to leave well enough alone, and she didn't deserve what happened.

She tentatively reached out and gave gentle pats on the woman's shoulder. That seemed to work, apparently. After a short while, Molly's sobs died down a little.

"Sherlock can be such an idiot!" Molly cried, "I mean, I like him and all. He's brilliant and I'll do anything for him, but sometimes he's just so… _urgh_!"

Harley had flinched away when the woman yelled, but then she came right back and nodded lightly. She didn't know Sherlock as well as Molly did, but she did understand where she was coming from. Harley had come to learn over the years, that it is often hard to admit that someone you've grown to admire or even love is not perfect, or to consider aspects of a person that are less than ideal. A prime example of hers was her mother. She loved her, no doubt, but that didn't mean that she didn't acknowledge the many flaws she had that weren't what one could deem admirable.

Finally, Molly's shaking and weeping went away altogether, and she wiped her face dry once more.

When Molly met Harley's gaze, the girl took her notebook, wrote in it, and showed her:

 _Would you like me to prep the morgue for an autopsy while you go finish him off?_

Molly laughed weakly, and Harley smiled, glad that she could make her feel better, if only a little. "No, that's all right, sweetie. I'm…I'm okay now." She looked toward the door sadly. "He was right, anyway. With the phone number and all. And I did think it as rather odd, the way Jim would occasionally flirt with some of the other guys in the cafeteria when he thought I wasn't looking."

At that new information, Harley looked away, a tight-lipped frown forming on her face as she grew angry. But she wasn't angry at Sherlock, nor was she at Molly.

It was Jim her fury was directed toward.

 _Could he BE any more obvious?! How could he do that to her— leading her on and then pulling a stunt like that?! And right in front of her, no less!_

"I guess, in a way, Sherlock _was_ helping me save myself from any further pain," Molly said.

Shaking her head, Harley turned back to Molly, her scowl softening.

 _I may not know Sherlock very well,_ she wrote to her, _but I do know that underneath that calloused bravado is someone who truly does care— in his twisted, absurd way that doesn't exactly come to light all that well. And if there's one thing I do agree with him on, it's that you should definitely break it off with Jim entirely. You deserve someone much better, Molly Hooper. Someone who will like you for you and make you happy, and nothing less than that._

Molly sniffled. Then she looked up from the notebook to Harley with shiny eyes and a crooked smile on her face. Then she suddenly threw her arms around the girl and hugged her tightly. Harley gasped, tensing up at the unexpected contact. But then she relaxed and wrapped her arms around Molly as well, returning the hug. She smiled a little.

"Thank you, Harley," Molly whispered. They pulled apart, and Molly grinned down at her. "You certainly have a way with words for someone who doesn't talk."

 _Well, it's good to know that_ someone _thinks so,_ Harley thought, smiling back.

"You should go back to Sherlock and your uncle. I bet they're wondering where you are right now," Molly said. "Don't worry about me. I'll be fine now."

After looking her over one last time, Harley started to walk toward the door.

"Oh, and Harley?" Molly called.

Harley turned her head and glanced back curiously.

Molly smiled. "I, for one, think you know Sherlock quite well."

Harley blinked, not sure what to think or how to respond to that statement. Instead, she just smiled back and left the bathroom. She made her way back to the laboratory door, but before she could open it, the sound of another door opening from across the corridor caught her attention. She looked over and saw Jim just leaving the room he was in. He was about to walk the other way until he spotted Harley. He smiled and waved.

Harley didn't wave back.

Her eyes narrowed at him, still infuriated at the display he did earlier. Then, without another response or even a second glance, she opened the door and swiftly strode back into the lab.

 _Jerk,_ she thought.

But then she closed her eyes and reached out to the wall to keep her balance, rubbing her temple with her other hand gingerly as she felt her headache coming back on. She faintly heard John and Sherlock busily talking amongst themselves. Shaking her head furiously and thinking _Damn it!_ over and over, she willed away the pain and continued on, approaching the two men.

"Ah, there you are, Harley. Your turn," Sherlock said upon seeing her come up. He slid the shoes her way.

Her eyebrow lifted in confusion. _My turn to what?_

"Oh, no," John said indignantly. "You had your fun humiliating me. You are _not_ doing it to a little girl!"

 _Aww, and I missed it?_ Harley thought sadly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Like I said, an outside eye helps. And you'd be surprised what your niece can find." He turned back to Harley. "Now, tell me what you can conclude from observing these shoes. Remember what I told you, now."

Looking between the consulting detective and her uncle nervously, she took a deep breath and stepped up to the table. Trying to block out the two adults and clear her mind, she picked up one of the shoes and looked it over, studying it closely and trying to find each and every detail like Sherlock had advised, even down to the tiniest spot. She turned the shoe around a few times, then looked inside it, and then felt along the laces. She did the same thing with the other shoe.

After a couple of more minutes, she put down the shoes with final nod. She opened her notebook, scrawled down her findings, and shifted it toward Sherlock:

 _Clean, old shoes— owner kept them in good shape but wore them a lot, with very faint traces of a name inside of it. Eighties style shoes. White splotches where they've been cleaned. The holes where the laces go through are stretched out, so the laces have been replaced a few times. Flakes of skin on the laces where they're usually tied, so the owner had some kind of rash or skin disorder._

A smile spread across Sherlock's face as he read her conclusions, and when he was finished, her turned to her. "Good. Very good, Harley. You got almost everything."

While relieved that she got at least some things right, she raised an eyebrow and wrote: _Almost?_

In answer, Sherlock picked up one of the shoes and began to spout out his own deductions. "The owner loved these shoes. Scrubbed them clean— whitened where they got discolored. Changed the laces three…no, _four_ times. And even so, there are indeed traces of flaky skin where his fingers have come into contact with them. He didn't just have a rash, though. He suffered from eczema."

Harley nodded in understanding. _Ah, okay. That makes more sense._

"The shoes are well-worn, more so on the inner side, which means the owner had weak arches," Sherlock finished off. "British-made. Twenty years old."

"Twenty years?" John asked.

"They're not retro; they're original," Sherlock explained as he pulled up an image of the shoes on his phone and showed them. "Limited edition, two blue stripes, 1989."

"But there's still mud on them. They look new," John said in disbelief.

"Someone's kept them that way. Quite a bit of mud caked on the soles. Analysis shows it's from Sussex with London mud overlaying it."

"How do you know?"

"Pollen." Sherlock inclined his head to the computer screen, which showed a map of Britain with two little dots blinking just around the borders of Sussex. "Clear as a map reference to me. South of the river, too. So, the kid who wore these trainers came to London from Sussex twenty years ago and left them behind."

"So what happened to him?"

"Something bad."

Harley brows furrowed in puzzlement. _So why has this come back up now, twenty years later? What does the bomber have to do with it?_

"He loved those shoes, remember," Sherlock continued. "He'd never leave them filthy. Wouldn't let them go unless he had to. So, a child with big feet gets…"

Harley looked at him when he trailed off, only to find him staring distantly ahead, as though something had occurred to him.

"Oh," he said softly.

John glanced in the direction he was staring, then back at him. "What?"

"Carl Powers," Sherlock whispered.

"Sorry, who?"

"Carl Powers," he repeated, a little louder so that they could hear.

"What is it?"

He didn't look at them, still gazing ahead, almost in shock. Harley stared at him in concern, wondering what could've possibly happened related to Carl Powers that would have him make that face. Until finally, Sherlock answered with, "It's where I began."

* * *

 **A/N- When I first watched _The Great Game_ , I thought it was a teeny bit off-putting that Sherlock thought he could deduce someone's sexuality just by the way they dress or clean themselves. It's a little more complex than that, Sherl, honey. I mean, I don't go out of my way to dress up like an asexual. Hell, I don't even know what the stereotypical appearance for Aces looks like, if we even _have_ one. That's why I didn't have Harley assume Jim was gay until after she saw him making googily eyes at Sherlock.**

 **And oh, man, I felt soooooo bad for Molly in this episode. She unintentionally became Jimmy's beard. I just _had_ to let her be comforted. She's a delicate, precious rosebud who truly does deserve better and must be protected.**

 **Thanks for reading!**


	26. A Not-So-Cold Case

**A/N- Hey, guys!**

 **After an agonizing week and half of filling out my taxes, FSA, and organizing/archiving paperwork and documents, I finally got this mother edited, proofread and finished (hopefully that's good enough. I'm still on quite the burnout from the filing).** **I detest this time of the year, if you haven't noticed.**

 **Disclaimer: I only on my OC.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

"Nineteen eighty-nine, a young kid— champion swimmer— came up from Brighton for a school sports tournament…drowned in the pool. Tragic accident," Sherlock told the Watsons as he pulled up a newspaper article on his phone regarding the incident. The three of them had left St. Bart's a few minutes prior and were currently on their way back to Baker Street. Harley held the shoes, which were now in a plastic bag to prevent any further contamination, in her lap.

"You wouldn't remember it, John. Why should you?" Sherlock said. He showed the article to them.

"But you remember," said John.

"Yes."

"Something fishy about it?"

"Nobody thought so— nobody except me. I was only a kid myself— a little younger than you, Harley. I read about it in the papers."

"Started young, didn't you?" John asked drily, while Harley looked at him with a small, but amazed smile. She tried to imagine a young version of Sherlock, running around spouting deductions, conducting experiments with a junior chemistry set, or perhaps even looking at dead animals or bugs in the woods and trying to determine how they had died. She admitted it was rather strange, envisioning Sherlock as an actual child, because she only ever saw him as the person before her now— a strong-minded, accomplished man who wasn't afraid of anything.

"The boy, Carl Powers, had some kind of fit in the water, but by the time they got him out it was too late," Sherlock explained. Then he turned to look out the rear window with a troubled expression. "But there was something wrong somewhere. I couldn't get it out of my head."

"What?" John asked.

"His shoes."

"What about them?"

"They weren't there." Sherlock turned back to them. "I made a fuss, tried to get the police interested, but nobody seemed to think it was important."

At this revelation, Harley shook her head with a sigh. Then she wrote in her book and showed Sherlock:

 _It wasn't that they thought it was unimportant. It was the fact that you were just a kid._

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her message, and then said quietly, "I suppose that too."

This, sadly, was true everywhere, in any sort of situation. Even when they insist that they are telling the truth— even with profound evidence to back up their claim— a child's voice is almost never taken seriously in an urgent matter. They are usually shrugged off, believed not to know any better or just being silly. And then people wonder why some kids don't even try to talk or open up to them— because they were never given any reason to or were too afraid of being put down. Harley has seen this everywhere she looked, from some of her classmates at school, to her neighbors, to her fellow patients at the hospitals she'd attended, _to herself_.

Just another one of life's struggles to look forward to along the way.

"He'd left all the rest of his clothes in the locker," Sherlock continued. "But there was no sign of his shoes…" he nodded his head at the bag of shoes in the girl's lap, "…until now."

Harley frowned thoughtfully. _But why now, after all this time?_ she wrote.

"I assume that's what this whole game is about," Sherlock answered. "There's much more to this case than even I'd realized, and the bomber had a part in it somehow."

"Game…" John muttered under his breath, but didn't say anything else. Harley looked at him in concern, but he was staring out the window, his face blank. With a soft sigh, she leaned against her uncle until they finally pulled up outside their flat.

By the time they were up in 221B, Sherlock went straight away to work, taking the shoes from Harley. He had closed off the kitchen from the living room so that he would be able to focus more without much distraction, while John and Harley made refuge in the sitting room. Harley had noticed that the room wasn't as chaotic and dusty as that morning, the glass swept up from the floor. Mrs. Hudson must've come and tidied the place up while they were out.

 _Not their housekeeper. Riiight,_ Harley thought amusedly.

Then she took out her phone, checking for the time and subtracting when the crying woman had called. It's been over six hours since then. Their time was already more than half up.

Harley looked grimly at the closed doors to the kitchen. She knew that Sherlock was brilliant at what he did, and that he would solve the case eventually.

She just hoped that he was brilliant enough to solve it in time.

She walked over to the couch, only to flop down onto it. She tenderly rubbed her temples for the third time since they left St. Bart's, her head pounding even more. She closed her eyes with a sigh.

"You okay?" John asked.

She opened her eyes and peeked over at her uncle. He'd been silently pacing in the middle of the room, but now he stood still as he looked at her.

Too tired to give a proper response through a written message, she nodded once and waved a hand dismissively, turning her head back to look straight up at the ceiling.

"Are you sure?"

She drew out a long breath, not bothering to look back.

That was the wrong way to react, apparently. John came over to her and placed his palm to her forehead, his eyes narrowing. "Tell me, Harley, what else did you get other than 'just a few scratches' from that explosion?" he asked her. "And don't you dare shake your head at me."

Harley squinted up at him. _Fine, Dad._

She slowly reached for her notebook and writing utensil, opened it up, and after blinking away the faint blurriness in her vision, she wrote:

 _I kind of hit my head. Sherlock said I might have a mild concussion, but he's no doctor._

"What?" John said in disbelief. He put his hands to the sides of her head, using his thumbs and index fingers to open her eyes wider to check her pupils. Harley wriggled herself free a moment later, shaking her head.

 _I'm fine. Just a headache, that's all,_ she wrote.

"Even so, head injuries are not to be taken lightly, Harley. I thought you of all people knew that," John said sternly, making Harley look away shamefacedly as she rubbed the back of her head. He proceeded to check her over, his doctor ego becoming more dominant. But he also had a somewhat guilty look on his face as he did so. "This just adds even more to my conscience about not being here last night," he murmured a few minutes later.

Harley blinked at him. Then she gently patted him on shoulder with a soft smile. She wrote:

 _HA! You have no conscience! You once ate all my strawberry jam while I was gone!_

John bit his lip, obviously trying not to laugh and look proud of that fact. "Not my fault you're so stingy."

Harley smiled again and wrote underneath: _Seriously, though, don't worry about it. Sherlock took good care of me._

John's brow furrowed after reading. He lifted his gaze until it was trained onto the various bandages that Sherlock had placed on her, and then he glanced over toward the kitchen doors where the consulting detective currently resided with an expression like he had no idea what to think or say in that moment. Then he turned back to his niece, his lips quirked up very faintly into a ghost of a smile in thoughtfulness before refocusing on her. He fixed the throw pillow behind her before he gently pushed her back down into a lying position.

"All right, then. You just rest here, okay? I'll be right over there," he told her.

She nodded, watching him step away and start pacing slowly in front of the kitchen doors before she moved her gaze to the ceiling, getting lost in her own thoughts.

After several minutes, she heard John stop his pacing and slide open one of the doors.

"Can I help?" John asked Sherlock, who didn't answer. "I want to help. There's only five hours left."

But then his phone beeped in his pocket, receiving a text message. At the exact same time, Harley heard her phone go off from the coffee table as well. With a frown, she reached over for it and checked it. She winced slightly at the bright screen before squinting her eyes to try and read the message from a new unknown number:

 **Any developments?**

 **Mycroft Holmes**

Harley stared blankly at the screen. _What?_

"It's your brother," John said, looking at his phone. "He's texting me now." Then he looked away with wrinkled eyebrows. "How does he know my number?"

 _Um, hello. How does he know MY number?_ Harley thought just as she heard Sherlock mutter to himself, "Must be a root canal."

John walked into the kitchen, out of Harley's view, but she could still hear them talk loud and clear. "Look, he did say, 'national importance.'"

"Hmph! How quaint," said Sherlock.

"What is?"

"You are. Queen and country."

"You can't just ignore it," John said firmly.

"I'm not ignoring it. I'm putting my best man onto it right now."

"Right, good." Harley heard John clear his throat, and then ask a moment later, "Who's that?"

Harley put her arm over her eyes and groaned inwardly as she heard Sherlock say bluntly, "You."

 _Come on, Uncle. Even I saw that one coming._

The next few minutes were moderately quiet as John got ready to go meet up with Mycroft.

Speaking of…

Harley took her phone once more, frowning at the message she had gotten from the older Holmes, wondering why he had texted her as well. Whatever thing Mycroft wanted solved, that was his problem. Not hers.

In a flourish, she typed out a reply and sent it to the number:

 **Please don't text me again. –HW**

She shut her phone off and put it away just as she heard John come downstairs, entering the kitchen first. She barely heard him say something to Sherlock in a hushed voice, before Sherlock replied dismissively, "Yes, fine. Go." Then John entered the sitting room and approached her. She checked out his nice suit and tie, and smiled. She whistled, earning a chuckle out of him. _**(A/N- Before you ask, yes, mute people can still whistle, as it does not require vocal chords)**_

"Down, girl," he said. He leaned down to give her a hug, and she kissed him on the cheek. "I'll be back shortly. You rest up, okay? And if anything happens, text me, or do what Sherlock or Mrs. Hudson tells you, all right?"

She did a three-finger salute before settling back onto the sofa, watching her uncle exit the room and hearing his heavy footsteps go down the stairs until he was out of the flat entirely, leaving the place in silence.

Five minutes later, Harley had begun to grow restless. She'd tried to close her eyes and take a small nap, but her wired brain wasn't having any of it, let alone the fact that the last time she fell asleep, she had a nightmare that was making her think that she was on the verge of completely losing it.

In a frustrated huff, she pushed herself off the couch, which caused major protests from her sore body, and made her way toward the kitchen. She slid open the door and walked right in, disregarding Sherlock's look of disapproval as he currently took apart one of the shoes into smaller parts and hung them up by clothes pins on a string. On the dining table were several old printouts and photographs about the Carl Powers tragedy, as well as a couple of beakers of newly mixed up chemicals that Harley didn't recognize on the spot.

"You should be resting," Sherlock said, clipping the last piece of shoe up in place, as Harley got out a clean glass near him.

Harley looked at him with a frown, shaking her head, before going to pour herself a glass of water.

Sherlock's eyes raked over her for a brief moment, taking in her appearance and stature, before letting out a sigh. "Pain relievers are in the second cabinet to your right. Take them and go back into the living room. You're not much use to me now in your state."

 _Gee, thanks, Sherlock,_ she thought sarcastically with a roll of her eyes. She took a drink of water before going to retrieve the tablets Sherlock mentioned. Before she took them, though, she looked at Sherlock questioningly while pointing at the multiple shoe parts.

"I'm running tests on the fibers in the shoes," he explained to her. "Carl Powers had a fit in the water just before he drowned. Obvious solution, something must've been induced into his system before he even got in the pool— something that the autopsy wasn't able to pick up. And it's possible that any trace of it could still be in the shoes."

Harley took in every word, and she smiled once he was finished.

"I know what you're thinking, and yes, it is brilliant," Sherlock said with a smirk. "I just need to find that trace, and we'll know how Carl died once and for all."

 _Awesome,_ she thought. She swallowed down a couple of the tablets while he went back to the table, carefully placing a slide underneath the microscope.

"It shouldn't take long now to find anything that might be in the shoes. In the meantime, you go get some rest," he told her before he leaned over to peer into the lens.

Harley's eyes narrowed at him, beginning to see a pattern here. _Fine, Dad…number two?_

Although, she was still able to acknowledge through the storm in her mind that, in a way, Sherlock was looking out for her. Him and John. It was…sweet. She normally didn't use that adjective often, if at all, but it kind of was.

She watched him work for one last moment, a small, serene smile playing at her lips. Then she retreated back into the living room and settled once more onto the sofa, laying her head back into the pillow. She gazed up at the yellow, bullet hole-filled smiley-face above her for a while, feeling the painkillers slowly beginning to take their course, her headache seeping away to be replaced with a numb drowsiness. She closed her eyes and eventually drifted off.

Her sleep wasn't any better than the last time.

Not only did she have that same dream, but it seemed to play out in front of her eyes over and over again, the flashes of pain lasting excrutiantingly longer. Now, though, she could sometimes hear voices and yelling, but they were too loud and fuzzy to fully understand what they were saying.

She must've woken up sometime in the middle of it, though, because she suddenly felt someone touching her shoulder, and it all simply vanished. She flinched, but then she realized that it wasn't trying to hurt her at all. If anything, it brought forth a comforting feeling. Her muscles loosened. Her eyes opened halfway, blinking sleepily. She tried to see who was there, but she was still out of it from sleep, her vision hazy, and it was dark in the room now.

Then a voice said in a low whisper, "It's all right, Harley. Go back to sleep."

She blinked groggily once more, and she slowly sank back into the cushions of the couch, her breathing evening out. She closed her eyes, feeling a set of fingers gently run through her hair that made her relax even more. She let out a soft sigh before dropping off again, only this time into a dreamless, more peaceful sleep.

The next time she awoke, it was to someone shaking her shoulder. Her face scrunched up a bit as she rolled over and buried her face into the pillow, not wanting to wake up yet, until she heard her uncle's voice above her, "Harley. You okay?"

She turned back around and blearily opened her eyes to the dimly lit room. It was evening now. John was knelt down over her.

"Are you feeling any better?" he asked her once her focus was completely on him.

She squinted up at him, still a bit disoriented at first, before regathering her sense and thoughts. She looked around for her notebook, grabbed it, and wrote to him a reply:

 _A little._

Which was true. Physically, she was beginning to feel better, bit by bit. Mentally, on the other hand…

She suddenly frowned, vaguely recalling what'd happened during her nap. She quickly scrawled in her book and showed it to John:

 _When did you get in?_

"Just now," he answered. "Sorry, I'd have come back earlier if I wanted to, but I didn't realize they'd make me wait that long to meet with Mycroft. I suppose I should've, though, considering how busy he gets."

But Harley had stopped listening to him after his first sentence when she realized that he mistook her question, her eyes drifting toward the now open frame between the living room and kitchen, staring blankly. Meanwhile, Mrs. Hudson was making her way up the stairs with a tray of tea in tow.

"Guess we'd better go and see how Sherlock's coming along, don't you think?" John asked her.

Shaking her head once to come out of her reverie, she looked back at her uncle and nodded yes. John helped her up from the couch just as Mrs. Hudson entered the kitchen.

"Poison," they suddenly heard Sherlock say to no one in particular.

"What are you going on about?" Mrs. Hudson asked him just as the two Watsons joined them in the kitchen.

Then the consulting detective slammed his hands down onto the table while exclaiming, "Clostridium botulinum!"

Harley jumped, fully alert now, and Mrs. Hudson scurried out of the room entirely.

Sherlock looked round from the microscope to John and Harley. "It's one of the deadliest poisons on the planet. Carl Powers!"

John glanced from him to the hallway where the landlady fled with a blank expression, while Harley came up to him, waiting for him to elaborate.

"Wait, are you saying that he was murdered?" John asked.

Sherlock jumped up from the chair and walked around the table to where he'd hung up the shoe fibers, Harley and John following him.

"Remember the shoe laces?" Sherlock asked.

Harley nodded, watching him intently.

"The boy suffered from eczema. It'd be the easiest thing in the world to introduce the poison into his medication. Two hours later, he comes up to London, the poison takes effect, paralyses the muscles, and he drowns."

"What? But how come the autopsy didn't pick that up?" John questioned in confusion as Sherlock walked back around the table in front of his open laptop.

"It's virtually undetectable, and nobody would've been looking for it," the detective explained, leaning down to quickly type something into his computer. Harley went to stand beside him, seeing what he was typing. He was on the forum of his website, _The Science of Deduction,_ and in the inbox he wrote:

 **FOUND. Pair of trainers belonging to Carl Powers (1976-1989).**

"But there are still tiny traces of it left inside of the trainers…" he pointed at the shoes, "…from where he'd put the cream on his feet." He finished up typing, completing his message with:

 **Botulinum toxin still present. Apply 221b Baker St.**

He hit the submit button before straightening up again, putting his hands on his hips. "That's why they had to go."

"So how do we let the bomber know?" John asked.

"Get his attention," Sherlock replied before the question was fully out. He looked down at his watch. "Stop the clock."

Harley looked at his watch as well, realizing that he'd solved the puzzle in nine hours, with three hours to spare. She sighed in relief.

"The killer kept the shoes all these years," John commented, voicing Harley's current thoughts as well. Of course, the killer had to keep the shoes because of the evidence in them, but questions were still swirling about in her head regarding the incident, like why would someone kill a thirteen-year-old boy in such a dastardly way? How did they get their hands on one of the deadliest poisons in the world to do so? Did they know that Sherlock was interested in the case at the time? And again, why was it all resurfacing after twenty years?

"Yes," Sherlock answered John's question, turning to him. "Meaning…"

"He's our bomber," John finished.

Suddenly, the phone rang from the table, causing all three heads to turn toward it. Sherlock hurried over and answered it.

The woman on the other line sobbed before speaking shakily, _"Well…done…you. Come…and…get me."_

Harley shivered. So, the bomber was stalking Sherlock's website; that was how he knew they'd solved it and stopped the clock right after Sherlock posted on his forum.

 _Wait._

Harley's eyes flickered back to the computer screen, at the forum on his website where various viewers had sent messages...including a certain _Anonymous_ , who had been sending Sherlock those disturbing encryptions.

 _No. It can't be…_

Her jaw dropped open in comprehending horror, before she quickly closed it, making her face expressionless again.

"Where are you?" Sherlock said loudly and clearly into the phone. "Tell us where you are."

While the woman tearfully told them of her location (but at least now it was of her own free will), John had quickly pulled out his own phone and dialed Lestrade's number to inform the DI and relay where the woman was.

Harley watched the scene play out in front of her, the dread that she'd felt when this entire dilemma started growing even more with the new information she'd just uncovered about their bomber. Not only was he responsible for the death of a boy from so long ago, but he was also the one constantly stalking Sherlock's website as well as her uncle's. But he wasn't just stalking their site— he was stalking _them_.

And she didn't forget that one comment on the entry regarding that first case she accompanied the boys on, about not giving the whole story.

She swallowed thickly. To say that she had a bad feeling about this would be the understatement of the century.

* * *

After Lestrade had confirmed that they'd found the hostage and were in the process of retrieving her, as well as assuring them the full details of the situation tomorrow, the three occupants of 221B moved from the kitchen to the living room, where they spent the rest of the evening. Everything seemed to have settled into a more quiet calm much later— that is, if one didn't look at the bigger picture.

John ordered takeout for them while they got comfortable. Sherlock sat in his chair, taking the remote and turning on the television. Meanwhile, Harley sat quietly at the center of the couch, her feet on the cushions, hugging her bent knees and resting her chin on them. Her face was devoid of emotion, but her eyes, which were trained on the floor in front of her and ignoring the telly entirely, looked troubled and burning with endless questions. Sherlock should know; he's donned the same expression several times in his life, let alone in his career as a detective.

Her face lightened up a bit when John returned with their food and sat down next to her, but even then, as they fully settled in the sitting room together, eating and watching rubbish on the telly, the confliction in her eyes still lingered as she picked at her food, hardly even eating it.

Sherlock glanced at her occasionally out of the corner of his eye, wondering what it was she was thinking about now. She was obviously interested in this case, and was curious about every aspect of it. That was one of the few characteristics of youth that he'd secretly grown to appreciate. The key to knowledge always begins with wondering, pondering, asking questions— a childlike curiosity. It was part of how he became the person he was today, after all.

Of course, that didn't mean that she was fully enjoying this case— that she wasn't afraid of what was going on. She _was_ afraid. He could see that, no matter how well she tried to hide it. That was a good sign, actually. If she wasn't, then he would think that she truly was mental.

Then again, it could be something else. Throughout the evening, whenever she looked especially uneasy, he would catch her tenderly rubbing the back of her neck or her head— particularly where he had seen that scar. She's been doing that a lot lately, he noticed.

He frowned lightly. Then he quickly averted his gaze to the television that began to play John and Harley's favorite program; a tremendously ridiculous science-fiction show about a man in a bow tie with a blue police box that somehow traveled through time and space. Sherlock had to resist the urge to roll his eyes, barely paying attention as the plot of the episode unfolded itself.

By the time the show was over, Harley had fallen asleep, her head resting in her uncle's lap and with John's hand passively resting on her shoulder.

As the nightly news came on, John turned his attention away from the telly and onto Sherlock. "Harley wasn't too bad when you checked on her this afternoon?" he asked. Then, eyes narrowing, he added in a warning tone, "You did check on her while I was out like I told you to, right?"

Sherlock actually did roll his eyes that time. "Yes, John. Contrary to what your blog says, I'm not always spectacularly ignorant about some things," he said scornfully, then returned his voice to neutral as he answered, "And no, not too bad."

He didn't think Harley would appreciate it if he told her uncle about how he found her earlier that afternoon when he took a short break from his work; how she was tossing and turning on the couch, obviously in the throes of a nightmare. He doubted that she even remembered the event. Although, he couldn't help but notice how much she had calmed down after he woke her and comforted her from it. Even now, she didn't look as tense with John. She must sleep better knowing that she was with someone she knew or trusted, he concluded.

He still didn't know how to feel about the fact that he was one of those people.

John's gaze shifted around the flat, particularly at the boarded up windows, then down at his niece with a sigh. "I still can't believe it. The explosion, I mean," he muttered. He ran a finger along the bandage on her cheek.

"It would've happened even if you _were_ here, John. She still would've gotten hurt," Sherlock said, knowing exactly what his flatmate was thinking. Then, after a moment's hesitation, he looked away and said in a low voice, "And even so, she's more resilient than you give her credit for."

John looked at him in surprise for a long moment, before lowering his gaze awkwardly. "I know, but still…" He trailed off, his hand moving to the back of her head, gently stroking her hair.

The action prompted Sherlock to speak up again. "Harley's scar."

John blinked and met his gaze once more. "What?"

"Her scar, on the back of her head and neck."

His flatmate's brow furrowed, the hand that was stroking his niece's hair freezing on the spot. "What about it?" he asked, his tone borderline defensive.

"How did she get it?"

For a while, John didn't answer, though he went back to running his fingers through Harley's hair. Then turned his gaze to the doorway and sighed. "It was an accident," John finally answered. "She was at school. I don't know the whole story, but apparently, she was knocked backwards, and she happened to be in front of a sharply edged table at the time. Cut her head right open as she fell." Then a corner of his lips twitched up into a bitter, humorless smile. "Of course, that's what a slightly hungover Harry told me over the phone after I got word that Harley was in the hospital."

Sherlock frowned, taking in John's story, before he looked away. He pressed his hands together over his chin in deep thought. An accident, John said. Just an accident, then. He was hoping that there would be more to it, and he couldn't help but feel that there was. And judging by John's skepticism, he felt the same way. But considering that was all he could tell from the event, there nothing else that he could properly provide.

"So do you think it's over now?" John asked, snapping Sherlock out of his thoughts.

"Hmm?"

"Now that you've solved the case, and they've found the hostage?" John finished.

Sherlock's face hardened, his eyes briefly moving between the two Watsons, before turning away again.

"No," was all he said on the matter before it was dropped, both of them growing silent for the rest of the night.

And he was right. He just knew it. No one would go through all that trouble just to leave a trail to a case that went cold many years ago. No, there was more to this game— much more.

And this was only the beginning.

* * *

 **A/N- The fact that it took twenty-six chapters for me to reference _Doctor Who_ in this story makes me feel a light amount of shame as a Whovian. (Don't worry, Sherlock. Soon you will see the light and will learn to love the awesomeness that is The Doctor).**

 **IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT: I will not be able to update in the next couple of weeks or so. Starting from March 6-13, I'm going to visit my grandparents in Florida (yeah, because it's a never-ending wild party in Florida over college spring break, am I right? XP). I won't be able to write while there (on my computer, at least. There's still the old journal). After last week, though, I could use a vacation.**

 **But don't fret, my fellow fanfic readers and writers. It's not forever. Heh, the day I stop writing altogether is the day Leonardo DiCaprio wins an Oscar.**

 **Harley: _He did win an Oscar, you uncultured swine._**

 **Me: ...Oh. Well, um...*saddened because I can't use that joke anymore***

 **Thanks for reading!**


	27. A BAFTA-Worthy Performance

**A/N- QUIZ TIME!**

 **Q1: Has it been too long since I've updated this story?**

 **A1: Absolutely!**

 **Q2: Do I feel terrible about it?**

 **A2: Indubitably!**

 **Q3: Will I promise to never do it again?**

 **A3: Nope.**

 **In all seriousness, though, I am deeply and truly sorry about my long absence. Not only have I suffered a major case of writer's block, but I've also been having some medical problems, especially regarding my back. It's been so bad that most times, can hardly move without flaring up with pain. So I've been spending my time trying to take care of myself- physically and emotionally.**

 **I finally feel better enough to start writing again. And boy, have I missed it so! The writing withdrawal in me was so bad, I couldn't stop typing for hours (my mother was concerned for me). I still feel bad, though.** **Would you guys feel better if I sat in the box of shame for a while? *sits awkwardly in a cardboard box for several hours***

 **Well, now that that's over with, let's move on with the story, shall we?**

 **Disclaimer: I only own my OC.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

The morning after Sherlock solved the puzzle regarding the shoes, the consulting detective and the two Watsons met up with Detective Inspector Lestrade at Scotland Yard, inside the confines of his office. John was seated in front of the desk with Harley next to him, while Sherlock remained standing, staring out the window before him with his fingers tapping together over his mouth— a habit that Harley had noticed about him whenever he was deep in thought about something.

She wondered what he was thinking about specifically.

"She lives in Cornwall," Lestrade explained, recounting to them information regarding the hostage, "Two men broke in wearing masks, forced her to drive to the car park, and decked her out with enough explosives to take down a house."

Harley frowned at the floor in front of her. _Yeah, because overkill is underrated,_ she thought disdainfully. Meanwhile, Sherlock turned and made his way over to them.

"Told her to phone you. She had to read out from this pager." Lestrade leaned forward and placed a small, black pager on the desk, before John picked it up to examine it. Harley leaned toward him to look more closely at it.

"And if she deviated by one word, the sniper would set her off," Sherlock said.

"Or if you hadn't solved the case," John added.

Sherlock walked back to the window. "Oh, elegant," he said quietly to himself.

John lifted his head with a sigh of exasperation, while Harley glanced at the detective with raised eyebrow.

"Elegant?" John repeated, almost incredulously, but received no reply from Sherlock.

Harley had to side with her uncle on this one. "Elegant" wasn't exactly the right word she'd use to describe this whole debacle. After coming to the conclusion that the bomber was most likely the one leaving those disconcerting messages throughout both Sherlock and John's websites, and also now knowing what he was capable of, "psychotic" seemed to fit better. Cleverly psychotic.

"But what was the point?" Lestrade asked, just as Harley was about to ask herself the same thing. "Why would anyone do this?"

"Oh," said Sherlock, gazing pensively out the window, "I can't be the only person in the world who gets bored."

 _Yeah, we know how your mind rebels at stagnation,_ Harley thought drily, thinking back to a couple of nights ago, when she came into the living room to find him shooting up the wall due to lack of a decent case.

Although, she couldn't help but get the feeling that the reason the bomber was doing all of this wasn't just out of sheer boredom— and even if it was, he had a sick way of passing his spare time. She recalled one of the _Anonymous_ comments from Sherlock's site: _'Looks like I'll have to get your attention another way.'_ With that said, she figured that he was doing all of this, kidnapping the woman and strapping a bomb to her, giving Sherlock a puzzle to solve with a time limit…all just to get Sherlock to notice him.

 _This guy sure is taking persistent to a whole new level; I'll give him that,_ she mused.

Of course, "persistent" was just a nice way of labeling him, in the stead of, say, "obsessive".

She was pulled out of her thoughts when the pink phone in Sherlock's hand beeped, alerting them of a message. She turned her head in time to see Sherlock activate the phone.

" _YOU HAVE ONE NEW MESSAGE,_ " the automated voice sounded, followed by the Greenwich pips. This time, though, there were only three short beeps and a longer one.

"Four pips," John remarked, breaking the silence after the message had ended.

"First test passed, it would seem. Here's the second," Sherlock said, holding the phone out for them to see. On it was a close-up photograph of the front of a darkly colored car with the driver's door left open and, judging by the many droplets of water, was left sitting out in the rain.

Harley stared at the picture from her seat. _Not another one,_ she thought dreadfully.

"It's abandoned, wouldn't you say?" Sherlock asked Lestrade.

"I'll see if it's been reported," the DI replied, taking the mobile phone with one hand and picking up his office phone with the other. As he tucked the phone between his shoulder and ear and began to dial a number, the office door opened.

"Freak?" Donovan called, making Harley stiffen in her seat. She glanced over to see the Sergeant holding another mobile phone out for Sherlock. "It's for you," she told him with a sneer.

Wordlessly, Sherlock took the phone from her and left the office, putting it to his ear. Donovan lingered at the doorway for a brief moment when he was gone, staring at Lestrade and the two Watsons with a rather sour look. Harley looked away, biting her lower lip and picking at a loose string on her jumper, her legs bouncing up and down rapidly, and she continued to do so even after she heard Donovan leave.

"Harley?"

At her uncle's concerned voice, she stilled her legs and let go of the seam from her jumper, realizing that her fingers were starting shake. She lifted her gaze to meet John's. "You all right? You're still not having headaches, are you?" he asked her.

She shook her head no. Her headaches were finally going away, actually. She was starting to think more clearly without the use of medicine.

The problem was that her anxiety has skyrocketed since this whole thing began.

She took her notebook, wrote in it, and showed him:

 _My nerves are just acting up._

"Well, maybe you not eating full meals lately could have something to do with that," John said with a light sternness before he pulled out an energy bar from his jacket pocket and offered it to her. Harley stared in surprise before reluctantly taking it.

John shook his head. "Honestly, what am I going to do with you? You're almost as bad as Sherlock when it comes to not getting enough to eat."

 _And I have yet to see you scold_ him _for it,_ she thought with a huff before she tore off the paper and took a small bite of the bar. She looked out the office window to see how Sherlock was doing, only to find him staring blankly ahead at nothing. His posture was stiff, unmoving, as he listened to whoever was talking to him on the phone.

Harley swallowed. _Uh oh, something's wrong._

She tapped on John's shoulder, getting his attention, and pointed toward Sherlock. She could practically _see_ the tension rising in his shoulders when he spotted Sherlock. He instantly stood from his seat and went to join Sherlock, Harley getting up to follow.

"And you've stolen another voice, I presume," she heard Sherlock say quietly into the phone once out in the general office.

She slowed to a stop a few feet behind him. _Yep, that's what I was afraid of._

"Who are you?" Sherlock continued. "What is that noise?"

Harley couldn't hear the person on the other end of the line, but she could only assume it was nothing but bad news, just by Sherlock's stony expression alone.

Harley approached Sherlock as he slowly lowered the pink mobile from his ear, indicating that the line went dead. She gently reached out and touched his arm when he didn't respond. He blinked once and looked down at her, meeting her concerned gaze.

"Okay, great," Lestrade suddenly said into his phone before hanging up. Then he looked up at the rest of them and announced, "We've found it!" He grabbed his coat and met them outside his office.

"Sherlock, what is it?" John questioned. "Who was that on the phone?"

"Another victim," Sherlock answered evenly, looking from Harley to John. "Since I solved the last case in nine hours, he's only giving us eight for this one."

"Then we best get going," Lestrade said, already heading for the door. "We've got the location of the car— just off the Thames."

With this new information, the three of them made to follow the Detective Inspector out.

So the bomber was only giving them eight hours this time, Harley thought. She just hoped that was long enough.

Lestrade was right about the car being found just off the Thames. After a several minute drive, they all had wound up at a construction site right off the river. A forensics team had already arrived there, as well as some officers who had roped off the area. Harley shivered when the wind picked up a little after stepping out into the chilled air, and she moved closer to her uncle as they walked hand-in-hand towards the crime scene, occasionally nibbling on what was left of her snack bar.

"Feeling better?" John asked her.

 _Much,_ she thought, nodding at him with a smile.

He smiled back. "Great. We'll see about getting some lunch in us after we're done here."

 _Sounds good._

She perked her ears to listen in on Lestrade's conversation with Sherlock in front of her and John as they ducked underneath the police tape, headed toward the abandoned car from the picture. "The car was hired yesterday morning by an Ian Monkford. Banker of some kind; city boy. Paid in cash," he said, consulting his papers, while they passed a crying woman being interviewed by two policemen. "Told his wife he was going away on a business trip, but he never arrived."

Sherlock and Lestrade continued towards the car, while the Watsons slowed their pace, falling a little behind. But then they stopped entirely when Sergeant Donovan suddenly turned to them, blocking their path.

"You're still hanging around him," she told John, like she almost couldn't believe it.

 _Ugh, this lady again._ Harley turned her head away, rolling her eyes as she took another bite of her bar.

"Yeah, well…" John trailed off, looking uncomfortable.

"Opposites attract, I suppose."

Harley had to resist the urge to throw her hands up in the air incredulously at what Sally was implying. _Oh, come on!_

Apparently, John had the same mindset as her when it came to other people's assumption about his relationship with his flatmate. "No, we're not…" he started with exasperation, but Donovan cut him off.

"You should get yourself a hobby— stamps, maybe. Model trains; safer."

Harley thought she was finally done with her little speech, but then Donovan turned toward her and folded her arms. "And you," she said crossly, "I don't know what your deal is, but I suggest you do the same. It'll only be a matter of time until he gets bored of you too."

Feeling her heart lurch in her chest, Harley glared up at her from under her eyelashes before looking away and taking another bite, chewing angrily. She's had just about enough of this woman.

After a few seconds of silence, Sally, who was obviously expecting a reply out of the girl, turned to John and demanded, "Okay, is she deaf or something? Or does she just take pride in ignoring people?"

John, who was glowering at her since she spoke to his niece in such a way, replied tersely, "She's mute."

Donovan's eyebrows rose before she looked down at Harley. "Really? You're a mute?" she asked skeptically. "You seriously can't say anything at all?"

At first, Harley didn't respond. Then, swallowing her food, she turned to look Donovan right in the eye, opened her mouth…

…and belched. Loudly.

"Harley!" John naturally scolded in surprise, but he was clearly trying to hold in his laughter, while Donovan stared at her in absolute disgust.

Harley simply smirked, took one last bite, and walked straight past the revolted Sergeant, dragging her uncle along with her. _Deal with it, constable._

"That was so wrong, young lady," John said as they approached the car and rejoined the detectives. "Funny, but wrong."

She flashed him her pouty face. It wasn't her fault that that woman started it.

"Before you ask, yes, it's Monkford's blood. DNA checks out," Lestrade said to Sherlock, getting the Watsons' attention. They watched as Sherlock leaned in to the car, observing the blood spilled all over the front interior, careful not to touch anything. Then he opened the glove compartment, peeking in, before grabbing what looked like a business card and remerging out of the car, straightening.

"No body," he remarked.

Harley noticed that as well. For a rather large quantity of blood in the car, there was no body anywhere in sight. Of course, then it would've been easy if there was one.

"Not yet," Donovan replied haughtily. The way she was glaring daggers toward Harley told the girl that she still hasn't quite recovered from their so-called conversation. _Too bad._

"Get a sample sent to the lab," Sherlock told Lestrade, who nodded. The consulting detective started to walk off as Lestrade turned to Donovan, who looked indignant. But he held his pointed look, and after a moment she finally relented by scoffing in exasperation and stomped off.

John and Harley joined Sherlock as he made his way toward the crying woman, who now stood alone. Harley looked at Sherlock only to see his face contorting slightly, breathing out through his mouth— as though he were on the verge of tears.

She frowned. _Wait, what is he doing?_

"Mrs. Monkford?" Sherlock asked the woman, who turned to him.

"Yes?" the woman replied through a small sob. She looked from him to John before shaking her head tiredly. "Sorry, but I've already spoken with two policemen."

"No, we're not from the police," John began. "We're, uh—"

"Sherlock Holmes," his flatmate cut him off, holding a hand out to woman, in which she took. "Very old friend of your husband's. We, um…we grew up together," he explained, his voice growing heavy as though getting choked up, his eyes glazing over.

Harley finally understood what he was doing, but that didn't stop her from staring, transfixed at the show he was pulling.

"I'm sorry, who? I don't think he ever mentioned you," said Mrs. Monkford.

"Oh, he must've done," Sherlock replied with faint surprise in his husky voice. He turned to John, who had looked away, pursing his lips. He turned back to the woman. "This is…this is horrible. I mean, I-I just can't believe it. I only saw him the other day!" He let out a weak, but fond laugh. "Same old Ian, not a care in the world."

Mrs. Monkford, now staring at Sherlock in disbelief, said, "Sorry, but my husband has been depressed for months. Who are you?"

"Pretty strange that he hired a car," Sherlock continued, ignoring her question. "Why would he do that? A bit suspicious, isn't it?" A single tear rolled down his cheek.

 _This is just weird,_ Harley mused.

"No, it isn't!" Mrs. Monkford retorted, growing more and more agitated. "He just forgot to renew the tax on the car, that's all!"

Sherlock let out another laugh. "Ah, well! That was Ian. That was Ian all over."

"No, it wasn't!" she snapped.

And suddenly, just like that, the smile melted off of Sherlock's face as his usual, cold demeanor reappeared. "Wasn't it? Interesting," he said flatly before he turned and walked away.

 _Holy cow,_ Harley thought with amazement as she and John fell into step with him, ducking under the police tape. Behind her, she could hear Mrs. Monkford ask an officer angrily, "Who was I just talking to?!"

"Why'd you lie to her?" John asked Sherlock.

"People don't like telling you things. They love to contradict you. Past tense— did you notice?" Sherlock removed his gloves to wipe his face dry from the fake tears.

"Sorry what?"

"I referred to her husband in the past tense. She joined in; bit premature. They've only just found the car."

Harley thought back to the strange conversation and realized that he was right. She did indeed refer to her husband that way. Now that she thought about it, the woman didn't seem all that choked up about her missing husband either. So was she involved in this somehow?

"You think she murdered her husband?" John asked, as curious about it as Harley was.

"Definitely not," Sherlock answered. "That's not a mistake a murderer would make."

Harley frowned. So how did she fit in all this, then?

"I see…no, I don't. What am I seeing?" John asked in confusion, shaking his head a little.

They walked past Donovan, who turned and called out to John, "Fishing! Try fishing!"

John turned back and nodded in exasperation, but Harley didn't bother with her. She came up next to Sherlock with her notebook, wrote in it, and showed him when she got his attention:

 _That was a BAFTA-worthy performance back there._

Sherlock smirked after reading. "You think so?"

 _I was very moved. You put the A-listers to shame._

He chuckled, lightly ruffling her hair, before they continued walking. Harley readjusted the headband in her hair, glancing up at him with a gentle smile. Then her uncle jogged up from behind and rejoined them.

"So, where to now?" he asked.

"Janus Cars," Sherlock answered. He pulled the business card he found in the vehicle out of his pocket and handed it to John. "Just found this in the glove compartment."

 _Janus?_ Harley wondered. At the familiar word, her brain instantly brought up several passages she'd read from various books regarding that name— from the ancient Roman mythology to its appearance in one of her favorite book series, _Percy Jackson and the Olympians._ The god of time, doorways, choices, beginnings, and endings. Otherwise known as the god with two faces.

She continued to ponder on this until they finally made it out of the construction site and on to a main road. Sherlock was just about to wave down a cab, but before he could get a chance to do so, a sleek, black car suddenly pulled to a stop in front of them. It was nowhere close to a taxi car. If anything, it almost looked like the type of vehicle a government official would ride in.

Harley frowned at the car suspiciously. She looked at Sherlock, who was also frowning. However, he looked more annoyed than concerned.

She only received more questions than answers when the back door opened, and out stepped a tall, slim woman with tan skin and long, dark, wavy hair. She didn't acknowledge them at first, staring down at her mobile phone.

John seemed to recognize her immediately, and he rolled his eyes. "Oh, great," he grumbled.

"Watson?" the woman finally spoke up, her eyes still glued to her phone. "Mr. Holmes wishes to see you."

John rubbed a hand over his eyes, sighing heavily. "Look, Anthea, can't you just tell your boss that we're doing the best we can to find that memory stick? He doesn't have to whisk me away every time he needs an update," he told her.

At this, the woman finally looked up from her phone and regarded him with a lifted eyebrow, saying, "Oh, no. He doesn't want to see _you._ " Then, turning from John's confused face, she looked right at Harley, whose breath caught in her throat as she realized what was going on.

"He wants to see _her_."

* * *

 **A/N- *le GASP!* Yep, Harley is going to meet Pie- Mycroft again. I've realized since chapter twenty-three that I quite enjoyed writing Mycroft's character, even it was a little difficult at first. But now I can't wait until I finish up with the next chapter. Just wait and see what I have in store.**

 **Thank you for reading, my passionate passion fruits! And a giant thank you for being so patient with me- or maybe you weren't; I can't see what you guys are doing through my screen. Well, in any case, thanks for at least not sending me death threats to hurry up.**


	28. Harley vs the Government- Round Two

**A/N- Harley: _HOT_ _BELGIAN WAFFLES, A.J.! You either take months to update, or only a few days! MAKE UP YOUR MIND!_**

 **Me: "You mad, bro? B3 "**

 **Harley: _I'm not your bro._**

 **She totally is.**

 **I was so overwhelmed by all of the feedback from the last chapter. Thanks to everyone who have wished me well! I've missed you guys!**

 **Disclaimer: I only own Harley. _Sherlock Holmes_ belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

Harley had to admit, she's occasionally wondered what it would be like to be escorted somewhere in a government vehicle; just one of those things where everyone tends to imagine themselves in a certain scenario, and how they would react to it.

Of course, she had never once expected it to happen under the strange circumstances that she was in at the very moment. And it certainly didn't feel as promising as she originally thought it would be.

For one thing, the car felt more like solitary confinement on wheels, which smelled like fresh leather and car cleaner. She wasn't really all alone, though. The woman that had ushered her into the car— _Anthea_ , that was what John called her— sat on the other side of the back seat next to her. But she might as well have not been there at all, the way she simply sat there, fiddling with her mobile phone, not saying anything.

Then again, it was quite refreshing to be acquainted with someone who didn't feel obligated to make idle chatter, and Harley was definitely not in the mood for a conversation.

She shifted a little in the stiff, black seat as they drove through the city, the driver expertly weaving his way through traffic. Her anxiety was slowly but surely reaching its peak the longer she sat and watched several buildings move by her window. She couldn't stop her feet from tapping against the carpeted floor rapidly, hands clutching her notebook tight in her lap, her heart beating faster every minute she was in there.

Long story short: she was stressing herself out.

Then, without even batting an eye from her phone, Anthea broke the tense silence. "No need to be so jumpy, Miss Watson. He's not going to eat you," she drawled. There was the faintest hint of a smirk on her face.

 _Is that a fact?_ Harley mentally questioned, glancing at the woman, before she let out a shaky breath and sat back in the seat, trying to calm herself down. Then she turned to stare out the rear-view window, her mind going back to her uncle and Sherlock. John wasn't particularly ecstatic at first, and made quite a fuss to Anthea, who was unmoved, instead only insisting patiently. When he finally relented, he begrudgingly told an anxious Harley to not be afraid, but also to text him if anything went wrong. Sherlock, on the other hand, didn't say anything at all, though he continued to stare coldly at the situation before him. Harley could've sworn she saw his jaw twitch slightly, almost in anger.

She wondered why that was.

She was eventually pulled out of her thoughts when the car smoothly pulled up to the curb, slowing to a stop. Harley looked out the windows questioningly.

"Go on in," Anthea said. Her eyes flickered from her phone to the building on Harley's side. "He's waiting for you."

Harley cast one last glance at the cryptic woman next to her, before taking a deep breath, gathering up her belongings (as well as her courage), and got out of the car.

Standing in the middle of the wide walkway, she took a moment to look up and down the street she was on, squinting at the bright sunlight due to her short time in the dark vehicle. She vaguely recognized where she was: the St. James area of Westminster— specifically known as Pall Mall. Then she turned her gaze up to the large, white building before her, taking in its posh elegance. Walking up the steps, past the long pillars, she approached the door, where right beside it was a brass plaque that said in bold, black letters:

 **THE DIOGENES CLUB**

She frowned at the rather odd but familiar name of a club before she opened the door and stepped inside.

The interior of the house was even more impressive than its exterior. Her eyes roamed all around her as she walked down the hallway, taking in everything from the marble design to the rows of busts on pedestals standing on either side of her; heads of people she didn't recognize at once. She passed by double doors that were left wide open. She peeked inside and saw that it was a large and luxurious drawing room. Several finely dressed men whose ages ranged from middle-aged to elderly sat scattered about the room in their own little nook, each reading either from a book or a newspaper. A couple of them glanced up at her when she walked by, only to revert their gaze a second later, raising their reading material closer to their faces— a gesture that Harley knew all too well: _don't bother me while I'm reading_. Shrugging at the action dismissively, she moved on.

 _It's so quiet here,_ she observed, and she was right. One thing she couldn't help but notice was that it was absolutely silent and still, save for her own footsteps echoing across the floor. She couldn't even hear the hustle of the city just outside the walls. Despite the reason she was in there, she found the place to be a calm, peaceful atmosphere— like a sanctuary from all of the noise and chaos of the outside world. A safe haven.

A minute later, she found herself in what looked like a foyer. There was a tall, wooden desk, where behind it stood an old man in a long coat and a black bowtie, who stared at her expectantly yet sternly as soon as she arrived. Harley guessed that he was something of a receptionist, only there was no phone or computer on the desk; just a small lamp and several sheets of paper with a fountain pen.

Glancing back the way she came, then at the man, she cautiously approached the desk while writing in her notebook. Biting her lip nervously, she showed him:

 _Here to see Mycroft Holmes._

After reading her request, the man's face softened slightly before looking up at the girl. He pointed to the large staircase at the end of the hall before he started to make gestures with his hands in what Harley recalled was sign language.

 _Oh, great,_ she thought with mild dismay before she watched his hands closely, trying to at least decipher what he was trying to tell her with her rusty knowledge of BSL. What she got was, _"Hall…two…door…left…stranger."_

She came to the conclusion that he must've meant something along the lines of, _"Down the hall, second door to the left,"_ though she didn't know where the word "stranger" fit in. Then she tentatively put a hand to her chin only to move it outward toward him, bowing her head— one of the only signs she managed to get down when she had attempted to learn:

 _Thank you._

The man smiled at her and nodded in approval, and she sent a small smile back before she made her way for the stairs and found herself on the next floor, which was just like the ground floor. Following the man's directions, she stopped in front of the neatly polished door, which had another plaque on it, only it now read:

 **THE STRANGER'S ROOM**

Now she understood where the extra word came from.

 _Well, this is the place,_ she thought. And, taking a deep breath, she opened the door and entered.

The Stranger's Room was a small but homely chamber that looked out into Pall Mall, with bookshelves on each wall filled to the brim with well-organized volumes, comfortable furniture, and crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling.

And standing at the window, with his back turned to her and staring out into the street below, was Mycroft himself, in all his tailored, umbrella-holding glory.

It wasn't until Harley gently closed the door behind her that he finally turned to face her. His lips curled up very faintly in what she supposed was a smile. "Ah, Miss Watson. Good to see that you've managed to find your way here, and without any trouble," he greeted her as she slowly walked across the room toward him, still looking around her as he talked. "What do you think of this establishment? The Diogenes Club."

She finally fixed her gaze on him when she approached. After a moment of thinking, she wrote:

 _From the Greek philosopher? Diogenes the Cynic?_

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Yes, precisely," he replied smoothly. He glimpsed at the door behind her. "It is a place where men who have no desire for the company of society can thrive in peace and silence. With the exception of this room, no talking is allowed under any circumstances." At this, he looked down at her with a dry smirk. "It's quite a shame. If you were of age, male, and of a higher class, you'd fit right in."

Harley narrowed her eyes at him. _You just love adding insult to injury, don't you?_

"Please, sit down," Mycroft said, turning away from her. "There's tea, if you want. Freshly made."

Harley watched him as he went to sit in one of the chairs in front of a coffee table, where there was indeed a platter with a porcelain pot of hot tea with cups, saucers, and bowls of cream and sugar. She had no idea what was going to happen from this point on, or what he wanted to say to her, but there was no turning back now.

 _Be strong, Harley Watson,_ she told herself. Exhaling steadily, she sat down in the chair across from him and, after a brief moment of contemplation, she made herself of a cup of tea.

Mycroft regarded her actions with an imperious and somewhat humorous smile. At her questioning gaze, he said, "You're certainly more cooperative than your uncle was when he and I were first acquainted."

Ah, yes. John had told her all about how Sherlock's brother "greeted" people.

 _That might be because you said please, and I never turn down free tea,_ she thought, taking a sip from her cup. The tea tasted decent. Not as good as her own, but she'll take what she can get.

"Now, I suppose you're wondering why I summoned you here."

 _You suppose correctly._

When she nodded, his face started to lose all of its amusement from earlier and turned more serious. Cold, even. "I want to talk to you regarding Sherlock Holmes, and your relationship to him."

Harley's brows furrowed before she lowered her cup onto its saucer, staring blankly at him. _What fresh hell is this?_

"You see," he began, twirling his umbrella absentmindedly, "I became aware of your association with my brother the day you first arrived at his flat. And of course, you've had enough time since then to gain an understanding of his character; no doubt that you are aware by now that Sherlock is not particularly conventional— and I'm not just talking about his intelligence, mind you.

"My brother is not one to make friends easily. Very rarely does he find anyone worth his time and energy, and even more so does anyone else bother to tolerate him and his eccentricities. Your uncle became an exception when they started flat-sharing, and is slowly making progress with him, but therein still lies his faults."

Then Mycroft fixed her with a stoic expression, but his eyes were alight with some curiosity, analyzing the young girl before him. "And then enter you. Harley Mabel Watson. Twelve-year-old child of known alcoholic Harriet Jane Watson from west Bristol; with an apparent history of mental illness, and thus hasn't spoken a word in the last six years. Decent grades in school, but several of the faculty have made notes of concerns regarding your…condition, and no friends to speak of whatsoever. Sent to different psychologists three— no, _four_ times over the course of your diagnosis. I must say, for a mute, you seem to draw quite the attention to yourself."

The more Mycroft talked to her regarding her personal life story, the more Harley felt like she was being punched in the face. She couldn't think of anything…and then she thought of a _lot_ of things, which involved words best kept confidential.

But of course, she wasn't capable of making them known vocally. So instead she just sat there, trying to keep her breathing even while he continued.

"So forgive me when I find it surprising that despite your background…you became another exception to Sherlock," Mycroft finished, keeping his eyes on her as he leaned forward in his seat. "Not even a week after you first meet him, and suddenly you're both running off solving crimes and spending time at the park, playing deductions together."

Harley blinked, her mouth parting slightly in astonishment before she quickly schooled her face again, but whether or not Mycroft had noticed, he didn't show it.

"Do you plan on maintaining contact with him even after you return home?" he asked her.

At this, she frowned at him, getting on the defensive. After setting down her cup, she took her notebook and wrote:

 _Why do you care?_

Mycroft tilted his head gently to the side, eyeing her. "Curiosity, mostly. You seem to have about as much trust issues as your uncle, and as mentioned before, you don't have any friends; you rarely open up to anyone. And yet…much like how you became an exception to him, _he_ became an exception to _you_. Why is that, may I ask?"

At first, Harley didn't respond, feeling at a loss. She moved her eyes toward the fireplace on the other side of the room, her gaze becoming distant. She thought back to the very first day she arrived in London— how John had warned her about Sherlock and his abnormal tendencies before she even met him. She thought about the banker, Sebastian Wilkes, and how he'd called him a weirdo, a freak. She thought about her last encounter with Sally Donovan— how the woman pretty much told her to stay away from him. And she didn't forget the comment Sherlock himself made once— saying that Donovan and pretty much everyone else thought he was a psychopath. That he was different from everyone else.

And, in all fairness, he _was._ She's seen the way he acted, what his personality was like. In some respects, they're all right about him.

But as strange and unordinary her uncle's flatmate was, she wasn't really all that bothered by him, if she was being completely honest with herself. Many people think that he's weird— mad, even. She didn't think so, though. If anything, she thought his peculiarities were just very funny— sometimes even a little charming. It wasn't exactly like he was _trying_ to come off as unsettling. It was more like he simply preferred to do his own thing, and didn't care what anyone else thought of him.

She liked that.

However, what she truly liked about him was that he was one of the very few people she's met who didn't try to force her to speak. He accepted the fact that she was a mute, and yet, he still treated her like a regular person. He asked for her opinion on things. He talked to her, even though she didn't talk back, which he didn't seem to mind. He never looked down on her in any way or saw her as some kind of handicap— or a disappointment.

But there was one thing about him that stood above all else. Something that, until just recently, only John ever did for her. It was what she had always loved about her uncle…and now she was starting to realize that she was slowly growing the same affections for the consulting detective as well.

Harley looked back at Mycroft, her lips curving into a smile. Then she took her notebook, wrote in it with a flourish, and showed him without hesitation:

 _He listens to me._

Mycroft's brows rose a little at her answer, yet somehow still managed to keep his face emotionless despite the multitude of thoughts going through his head as he scrutinized her answer, along with her body language and facial expressions. There was something else about the way Mycroft was looking at her, but Harley didn't know what…almost like he had just discovered something that he didn't quite catch before.

"I see…" he said quietly a few moments later. He sat back in his chair, clearing his throat softly before regaining his authorative demeanor. "But it's not just curiosity that I'm asking you. Like I said, my brother has many flaws, but there are some things about him that, shall we say, makes him a danger to himself. You see, years back, he had certain…addiction, and though he is fine now, it still has a hold on him from time to time— so much so that I make it my first priority to keep a constant watch on him." Mycroft looked pointedly at her. "I presume you understand what I am getting at."

Harley, whose eyes had widened slightly at this revelation, nodded slowly. She never would have guessed. But she didn't press for anymore details, as that was Sherlock's own personal business.

"Which brings me back to the reason why I asked. Your uncle has helped me keep tabs on my brother, despite the fact that he refused my offer to compensate him for his efforts at first. But now, in the light of recent events, Sherlock thinks highly of you as well— to the point where you seem to have more influence over him than both of you realize. So I would very much appreciate it if you were to help keep an eye on him for me. Just make sure he stays out of even worse trouble than usual."

Harley was stunned. She certainly wasn't expecting that out of the British government. After listening to everything he'd said, he just went right in and put the cards on the table in front of her. At first, she got the impression that he was just sticking his nose into his little brother's business, and was using his political power to make it easier. Sure, she understood now that he was only concerned for Sherlock's well-being, but in the end, what he was basically telling her was: Will you spy on him for me now that you've gained his trust?

Which, to be honest, made her feel very conflicted and uncomfortable.

After a minute of tense silence between them, Harley gingerly took her book and wrote:

 _Can I have some time to think about it?_

"Of course," he answered instantly. "I won't force you. And when you've come to a decision, my number is in your contacts list."

Harley stared suspiciously at him. _That's it?_ _Just like that?_

Suddenly, there was a beeping noise coming from his trouser pocket. He pulled out a mobile phone and checked the screen for a moment before returning his attention to her. "It appears that Sherlock and your uncle are at St. Bart's hospital now. I'll have my assistant take you there immediately."

He stood from his chair, and Harley followed. He held a hand out to her in a professional manner, in which she took. "Thank you, Miss Watson." Then he smiled slightly. "Hope to see you again in the future."

 _Okay, he could tone it down a little with the creepiness,_ she thought.

She started to head for the door, but Mycroft stopped her. "Oh, and Miss Watson?"

Reluctantly, she glanced back.

"When you meet up with Sherlock again, please ask him how he is doing with the Bruce-Partington plans. Whatever he is doing now, it can't distract him from finding that memory stick."

 _Um, pretty sure a bomber would distract_ anyone _from a simple memory stick,_ she thought with a small frown.

She kept going until she left the room entirely. After closing the door behind her, leaving her all alone in the large hallway, she pinched the bridge of her nose and let out a long, heavy sigh. Then she lifted her head back up, running her hand through her hair.

That was…something else.

Taking one last look around her, she began her trek back through the silent Diogenes Club and out into the loud streets of London, where Anthea was waiting for her to take her back to her uncle. Deep down, though, she hoped that it would be a long ride.

She had a lot to think about.

* * *

 **A/N- I just freaking love the idea of the Diogenes Club. A place where antisocial people go to be antisocial together? And they're not obligated to even acknowledge one another? SIGN ME THE HELL UP!**

 **And if there is one thing I learned about the _Sherlock_ fandom since I started this story, it's that you guys absolutely LOVE Mycroft to no end. And I can see why. Mycroft is Boss. I just hope I'm doing him justice. **

**Although I do enjoy Mark Gatiss's Mycroft, I think my favorite rendition of the character has to be from the Granada TV series, and only because of one scene where he briefly joins our duo on their adventure in the _Greek Interpreter_ (I know, right?), and they're all running after the train. Sherlock's yelling at him to hurry up, and he yells back while waddling behind, "I'M NOT BUILT FOR RUNNING!" I couldn't breathe, I was laughing too hard.**


	29. Just a Suggestion

**A/N- Hello, my soft, puffy marshmallows!**

 **I'm dreadfully sorry for being away for so long, but I actually do have a legitimate reason for it. You see, I went through a family crisis- a big one, actually. My uncle died recently, in one of the most sudden, terrible ways possible. And it really messed me up- it messed _everyone_ in my family up. My uncle and I were very close; he was an even bigger geek than I was (he was delightfully surprised when he found out I liked Doctor Who), he always talked and made jokes with me at get-togethers when no one else did, and he loved me for who I was. So when I got the news of his passing, it just sent me to a bit of a dark place.**

 **So after several weeks of crying, not talking to anyone, speculating, crying again, and eventually accepting the reality, I finally gathered up the guts to brush myself off and keep going. My family is still pretty torn up about it, and I doubt we'll ever be the same, but we'll manage.**

 **Ah, but I am glad to be back and writing again. I keep forgetting how much writing can often soothe my soul in times of hardship. So...here's chapter twenty-nine, fellow readers and writers!**

 **Disclaimer: I only own my OC.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

True to Mycroft's word, Anthea dropped Harley off at St. Bart's after another long, uncomfortable ride through the city. When they pulled up in front of the hospital, the woman lifted her gaze from her phone to the girl. "Your uncle and Mr. Holmes are inside. I'm sure you already know where they'll be. Have a great afternoon," she said with a smile.

Harley blinked. That was probably the longest she's seen Anthea look up from her phone— and probably the most she's heard her speak at one time.

After a simple nod in acknowledgement, she left the sleek government vehicle and entered the front lobby of Bart's. She only looked back once after she stepped inside, but the car had already disappeared.

She shook her head with a sigh before turning her back on the outside. If that Mycroft never kidnapped her like that again, it would be too soon.

 _Although, I wouldn't mind visiting the Diogenes Club again,_ she mused. _Hang out with the fellow hermits…_

She pulled out her phone and started typing a message to her uncle. Then she hit send:

 **I'm at Bart's. Are you and Sherlock in the lab? –HW**

She stood in the lobby and waited, not wanting to go anywhere until she knew for sure where they were. A couple of minutes later, she got a reply:

 **Sherlock is, but I'm in the cafeteria getting lunch. Do you know where that is? –JW**

Harley's lips twitched up a little. John did mention lunch earlier. She wouldn't mind getting something to eat. That energy bar earlier was filling, but not that satisfying. She could also use a nice hot cup of coffee. After briefly checking the signs and directions on the walls, she texted:

 **I'll find my way. Is there coffee? –HW**

A pause.

 **You know you have a coffee problem, right? –JW**

Harley smirked.

 **The real problem is I don't have a cup of coffee in my hands right now. –HW**

 **Right. Just get down here. –JW**

 **Roger that, Captain. –HW**

She put her phone back in her pocket and, following the signs carefully, she began to make her way for the cafeteria. She managed to find it in only three minutes, not being that far from the entrance. She stepped into the large room to find it mostly empty; she was able to spot her uncle easily, sitting at a table with a tray of food. She hurried over to him. John turned to her as she approached and smiled, looking somewhat relieved.

"Hey, you," he said as they hugged each other. When they pulled apart, John looked her up and down. "Are you all right?"

She nodded lightly.

"Well, you'd better be hungry. I got you some lunch." He gestured to the tray of food, which consisted of a plate of roast pork with mashed potatoes, and another plate of pasta. It all smelled so good, Harley's stomach rumbled.

They sat down and began to dig in to their meals.

"Oh, and here. Since you asked," John said, handing her a small, cardboard cup of coffee with a lid, the steam coming out of the small hole. "You only get this much, okay? I don't want you up all night bouncing the walls."

With a small smile, she wrote in her book and showed him:

 _Good enough for me. Bless you, Uncle._

He rolled his eyes and grinned. "I know, I'm amazing."

She put the cup to her lips and took a sip— only for her eyes to bulge wide as she made a sort of choking sound. The coffee was God-awful. _Christ almighty, what is this?!_

John's grin faded. "That bad?"

She quickly shook her head, using all her will-power to swallow down the liquid bile that now contaminated her mouth. Then she managed a strained smile and gave her uncle a shaky thumbs-up.

John raised an eyebrow before going back to eating his food. The second he looked away, Harley shivered and grimaced. She glared at the cup in disgust before setting it down as far away from her as possible.

 _It's a disgrace to coffee brewers everywhere,_ she thought bitterly. _I ought to send a complaint to whoever's in charge around here._

She grabbed John's water bottle from across the table and gulped some of it down, hoping to wash away the unholy taste. John didn't seem to mind, though, as he continued to eat without even looking up.

After a few minutes of eating together in silence, he asked, "So, how was your visit with Mycroft?"

Harley swallowed her mashed potatoes and looked away, almost dreading the question. She wiped her lower lip with her sleeve and wrote:

 _A bit emotionally damaging, but other than that, it went fine._

John stared blankly at the notebook before raising his head again. "He asked you to spy on Sherlock for him, didn't he?" he deadpanned.

She nodded.

John rubbed his eyes tiredly. "You'd think a guy like him, with access to CCTV cameras and surveillance, he wouldn't have to ask us to watch his brother for him," he muttered.

 _CCTV cameras?_ Harley thought. But then she remembered Mycroft's comment about her and Sherlock at the park— and the other things he'd mentioned regarding her relationship with the detective. So that was how he knew.

 _God, the more I learn about him, the creepier he sounds._

Wanting to change the subject, she wrote:

 _What did you and Sherlock do while I was gone?_

It worked. Instantly, John began to tell her about their little adventure; that after she left, they visited Janus Cars and talked with the man who rented the car to Ian Monkford, a Mr. Ewert. John didn't think that they got much out of Mr. Ewert, but Sherlock didn't seem to agree. The only thing he'd told John was that Mr. Ewert was lying.

 _Lying?_ Harley pondered. _So he knows something about Mr. Monkford's disappearance?_

"Sherlock's in the lab right now looking at a blood sample from the car," John finished. "Once he's done, we'll meet back up with Lestrade."

Then, before Harley could respond, a loud voice from across the room caught their attention, "Hey, John!" They both looked up to see a plump, bespectacled man with short brown hair, waving at them with a broad smile as he approached.

"Oh, hey, Mike. How are you?" John greeted him politely.

"You know, the usual— still teaching a bunch of ungrateful smart-alecks here," The man named Mike replied good-naturedly, which caused both men to laugh.

Harley just looked at them both questioningly.

John, finally noticing her expression, stopped laughing and explained, "Harley, this is Mike Stamford. We went to Bart's together. Mike, this is my niece, Harley."

Mike, who had been staring at Harley throughout John's introductions, suddenly lit up in recognition. He grinned. "Oh, Harley! I thought you looked familiar. You're Harry's kid! You were barely up to my knees last time I saw you!"

Harley could only manage a slight smile as she tried to recall ever meeting him when she was younger, but was drawing up a blank.

Mike didn't seem all that offended that she didn't answer him. In fact, he simply laughed once more. Then he said, "Still a girl of few words, are you?"

Her smile vanished, staring expressionlessly at him as he turned back to her uncle and began to converse with him again, not grasping the impact of what he'd said to her. Harley looked down at her food with a frown, having lost her appetite.

After a couple of minutes of listening to them talk— both of them appearing to have forgotten her presence— she ripped off a small portion of her notebook paper, wrote a note in it saying that she was going down to the lab, and left it in front of her uncle for him to read whenever he was finished. Then she stood up, taking her plate with her to put away.

As she disposed of her uneaten food, she saw Molly Hooper getting in the line for lunch. She smiled as she caught the pathologist's eye and waved. Molly grinned and waved back, pleased to see her. Harley noticed that Molly looked a lot happier than the last time she saw her. That was good. She must've done what Harley had suggested, and cut off all ties with that Jim fellow from IT. Speaking of, Harley hasn't seen him around— not yet anyway. Hopefully, it would stay that way. From the other day, she thought that he was almost as creepy as Mycroft.

Oh, how that opinion would soon change.

Harley was about to leave the cafeteria, but something else caught her eye. Nailed to the wall on the other side of the room was a small, wooden Suggestion Box, with yellow slips of paper and pens next to it.

Harley's eyes narrowed. _Oh, I've got a suggestion, all right._

After doing her business with that, she left the cafeteria for good and made her way for the laboratory, recalling the directions from the last couple of times she'd visited. She opened the door and looked up to find the consulting detective at the table, naturally. He was holding up a petri dish to peer more closely at it, a smile forming on his face.

 _Guess he's coming along nicely,_ she thought.

Sherlock acknowledged her as she walked up and promptly sat herself down onto the stool next to him, his smile gone. "So, you're back. How did it go?" he asked nonchalantly, setting down the dish— which Harley saw now had a drop of blood in it that was fizzing and changing into a more rust-like color.

There were three seconds of total silence throughout the room before Harley dramatically dropped her head down onto the table face-first.

She heard Sherlock let out a light chuckle from above her. "That doesn't surprise me."

She swiftly lifted herself back up, no doubt leaving a red mark on her forehead. Turning back to Sherlock with a pouty look, she took her notebook and wrote:

 _Has your brother always been that uptight?_

"Afraid so. The Christmas dinners were always something left to the imagination."

Harley stared at him, wide eyed, before hastily writing down:

 _How are both of you still alive?!_

He smirked. "With experience and constantly digging down deep for any sort of tolerance for each other's existence," he answered.

She shook her head wearily and rubbed the back of her neck with a sigh. _Sherlock's right. I'm grateful I'm an only child._

Then she glanced up and caught Sherlock staring at her, his face pensive as he watched her actions. Her brows furrowed as she removed her hand from her neck. _What?_

However, the second he noticed her looking back, like a light switch his face became devoid of any emotion as he turned away.

"Tell me," he began coolly as he put his equipment away, "Does the word Janus mean anything to you?"

After a moment of staring suspiciously at him, she bit her lower lip and wrote in her book:

 _The two-faced, Roman god of doorways and transitions (among a lot of other things). And by two-faced, I mean that literally._

He nodded in confirmation. "Exactly. With Janus Cars, though, it's not literal. But with that knowledge in mind, it only makes it even more obvious."

Harley raised an eyebrow questioningly. _What do you mean?_ She wrote.

"Our bomber called not too long ago. He said that the clue's in the name."

Harley was surprised at this news. The bomber gave him a clue? Why would he do that?

Snapping out of her stupor, she wrote:

 _John told me what happened when you two went to Janus Cars. You think they could be involved with Mr. Monkford's disappearance?_

"Oh, I don't think, I _know_ they're involved," he answered. Then he carefully slid the petri dish of the blood sample across the counter toward her. "See this? After running a simple test on it, I've concluded that it's indeed Ian Monkford's blood, but it wasn't drawn from his body recently. There are several particles in that one drop alone that tell us that not only was it donated some time ago, but it's been frozen— just waiting to be used. There's also the fact that there was exactly one pint of it in the car, on the dot. No one loses a perfect pint of blood. And that's what Janus Cars did: they took Ian's blood and spread it in the car to make it look like he'd been murdered to throw us off his track."

Harley frowned at the dish, trying to piece together what he'd said with any and all information she'd learned throughout this case. A long moment later, she hesitantly began to write:

 _The wife did say that he's been depressed for months. And he's a banker, so maybe he got himself into some financial trouble and couldn't see a way out, and he got desperate? So Janus Cars helped him fake his death somehow?_

Sherlock read her theory, and for a moment he was silent, eyes widened slightly. Then he met Harley's gaze and, to her surprise, he smiled. "Yes. That's exactly what happened."

Although glad that she was on the right track, she couldn't help but make a face at the revelation.

 _That seems a little drastic, though— just to get out of paying your debts,_ she wrote.

"Oh, you'd be surprised with the lengths people will go to escape debt."

Harley's lips twitched upwards in elation before she continued:

 _And Janus also means the god of beginnings. So to the outside world, they're just a simple car rental, but if you get into some kind of trouble and want to disappear, to start a new life for yourself…Janus Cars will help you do it._

Sherlock's smile spread into a grin, that excited gleam back in his eyes. "Precisely!"

His grin, as well as his growing enthusiasm, was contagious. Harley's lips curled up even more as she remembered their encounter with Mrs. Monkford earlier that day. _And Ian's wife is in on it, too,_ she added, not a question this time. A certain declaration.

"Yes! Isn't it brilliant?" he exclaimed. "Now, we just need to let Lestrade know, then the bomber. It only took five hours to solve this one!"

He continued to clear away the table. Harley watched him with a smile before she busied herself by washing out the petri dish and putting it away for him. By the time she was done, John came into the room and joined them.

"Hey. Find anything?" John asked. He wrapped an arm around Harley's shoulders when she came up to him.

"Oh, yes," Sherlock answered with the same air of excitement lingering in his voice. He took his coat and scarf from the back of the chair as he started to lead them out of the lab. When he didn't elaborate more on the subject, John simply shook his head and followed suit with Harley, eventually catching up with the detective.

Then John turned to his niece with a glare as they walked. "By the way, Mike saw the little note you put in the suggestion box back in the cafeteria."

Harley looked away and bit the inside of her mouth, trying not to smile, as Sherlock looked at them both curiously. "Suggestion?"

John rolled his eyes before he replied, "From the ever poetic mind of Harley Watson: _'Your coffee is shite. Stop it from being shite.'_ "

While Sherlock snorted with laughter, Harley shrugged lazily with a crooked smile. _Just sayin'._

"Gotta watch your language, young lady," John admonished, though it was clear it was only half-heartedly.

 _I take after you and Mum. I wouldn't talk,_ she thought, sending him one last smug smile before leaning more into his side as they walked on together, holding onto his arm around her shoulders, earning a chuckle out of him.

Sometime later, they arrived at the police car pound and met up with Detective Inspector Lestrade, all of them standing around Monkford's car. Sherlock explained to Lestrade what he and Harley had discussed in the lab— about Janus Cars having a second business in helping people disappear when they are in trouble, and how they helped Ian Monkford do so by taking a pint of his blood and spreading it in the car. Lestrade and John listened intently, surprised by the revelation but also taking Sherlock's word for it. Harley watched him with a small smile, glad that this case was coming to a close.

"So where is he?" John asked, referring to Ian Monkford.

"Columbia," Sherlock answered simply as he closed the car's driver door and walked away.

"Columbia?" Lestrade exclaimed in disbelief, following him.

"Mr. Ewert of Janus Cars had a twenty-thousand Columbian peso note in his wallet. Quite a bit of change, too," Sherlock elaborated. "He told us he hadn't been abroad recently, but when I asked him about the cars, I could see the tan line clearly. No one wears a shirt on a sun bed."

Harley made a face. _No kidding. You'd just look like an idiot tourist._

"That, plus his arm," he continued.

"His arm?" asked Lestrade.

"He kept scratching it— obviously irritating him and bleeding. Why? Because he'd recently had a booster jab. Hep-B, probably. Difficult to tell at that distance. Conclusion: he'd just come back from settling Ian Monkford into his new life in Columbia, Mrs. Monkford cashes in on the life insurance, and she splits it with Janus Cars."

"Mrs. Monkford?" John questioned.

"Oh, yes. She's in on it too," Sherlock replied, shooting Harley a quick smirk.

 _Yeah, and she was probably planning on joining her husband later in Columbia. Who knows now,_ she pondered, smiling back.

"Now go and arrest them, Inspector. That's what you do best," Sherlock told Lestrade before turning back to the Watsons. "As for us, we need to let our friendly bomber know that the case is solved."

Harley waved goodbye to Lestrade, who simply shook his head tiredly as he watched them leave with a faint smile growing on his face, before she jogged to catch up to the two men— just in time for Sherlock to pump his fists with the zealous, triumphant exclamation of, "I am on FIRE!"

Harley grinned with silent laughter, and when Sherlock met her gaze, she held out her fist for him. Sherlock simply stared at her confusion, but Harley inched her fist closer, raising her eyebrows. _Come ooon,_ she mentally prodded. Then, slowly, reluctantly, Sherlock obliged by lightly tapping his fist against hers.

 _Yesss!_

John looked away, trying not to break out into laughter, while Sherlock turned to stare straight ahead with the blankest face Harley's ever seen. She smiled with satisfaction as the three of them walked out of the garage, the lights overhead flickering off one by one behind them.

Harley was happy to be back at the flat after a long day out— especially when one of the things that happened to her was get kidnapped by a government official, but hey, she wasn't pointing fingers. It had gotten considerably freezing in the flat due to the still boarded up windows and the heating going out, and even worse now that it was evening. Luckily for her, not only did she and her uncle come from a long line of ashen blond hair and old family middle names that they weren't too proud to have, but also the primal instinct to keep more jumpers and cardigans than they actually needed— a quirk that Sherlock had amusedly pointed out to her the day they met.

But who was laughing now?

Not her, because she physically couldn't, but still...

John instantly went to work with preparing hot tea for all of them, while Harley went upstairs to get every long-sleeved piece of clothing she'd brought with her as well as her uncle's from his room, and Sherlock went straight to John's laptop and logged in to his website, keeping his coat and scarf on. Harley returned downstairs with a large pile of jumpers in her arms— as well as her fuzzy socks.

However, she stopped at the bottom of the stairs when she heard the pink phone ringing from the table. It only rang once before Sherlock answered it, and instantly she could hear a young man's terrified voice filter through.

"He says you can come and fetch me," he said, his voice faltering until it turned into sputtering sobs. "Help. Help me, please!"

Harley closed her eyes and sighed, the dread she'd been feeling every time someone called from that phone so far growing inside her. She shifted her hold on the clothes only to rub the back of her neck. _When will it stop?_

She stood there in the middle of the hallway, waiting as she listened to the hostage tell them his location and John call Lestrade and relay the information. The water in the kettle was beginning to whistle by the time all of that was taken care of, and John went into the kitchen to finish making the tea. Harley took that as her cue to rejoin him.

Harley could easily tell that John was as stressed about the ordeal as she was, but when she approached him and offered him some of her jumpers, his face lost all of its concern, replaced with a thankful grin as he took half of them from her. "Very considerate of you. Ta."

She smiled back before putting on the jumpers she had, leaving her in several layers of clothing.

John frowned at her as she put on the last jumper— a largely oversized, deep green one. "I think that one's mine."

She pretended not to hear him as she fixed her hair and made a dash for the living room.

"Oi, I said that's my—"

But she was already gone.

John rubbed his eyes and groaned.

Harley saw that Sherlock had moved from the table to his usual armchair, his hands steepled over his chin in thought. Sherlock spared a quick glance at her when she entered the room. "You look ridiculous," he said plainly before returning his gaze to nothingness.

 _I'm sorry, I can't hear you over the deafening sound of how snug I am,_ she thought, readjusting her jumpers.

John came back and gave each of them a hot mug of tea. Just what they all needed. And after reheating some leftover takeout from the night before, they were all settled in— except Sherlock chose not to eat his still-untouched food, so John simply helped himself to it. Harley looked over at the detective from her spot on the couch next to her uncle, a small smile on her face as she remembered Mrs. Hudson's comment about his eating habits some time ago. _Gangly scarecrow, indeed._

She turned her focus back to the television channel that they settled on watching, which was playing some weird, old, black-and-white sci-fi monster film.

And cue the yelling and insults from Sherlock.

"I'm quite sure that if there was enough formic acid in that body to kill twenty men, there wouldn't be much of it left, especially when most of it is already physically broken down!"

Harley and John looked at each other and rolled their eyes as Sherlock continued to yell at the screen, "And everyone knows that natural formic acid comes from ants! Why would they think it was some homicidal maniac? They're all idiots!"

 _These movies are a lot less scary after seeing_ real _carcasses,_ Harley thought, criticizing the movie for herself as she watched the giant ant on the screen disembowel an unfortunate victim. Then she blinked, her brows furrowing. Normal twelve-year-old girls never even considered concepts like that, she realized— not to mention, they never got excited whenever they figured out a man had faked his death and immigrated, she recalled from back in the lab with Sherlock earlier.

 _Man, this holiday is really doing a number on me,_ she mused. She looked over at her uncle beside her, who was watching the telly and laughing with amusement, then at Sherlock, who was still making judgmental comments about the logic of the film.

Shaking her head, she went back to picking at her food and watching television silently until it was time to turn in to her room for the night.

But when she went to bed later that evening, she found herself having trouble falling asleep. Not because she didn't want to. She just _couldn't_ , and it was taking more of a toll on her than the already nagging stress that had been causing her to have some sleepless nights lately in the first place. Laying in her bed all alone in the dark, her eyes glued to ceiling, her thoughts reeled with things that have been concerning her the past several days. The explosion across the street, the bomber, her nightmares, her meeting with Sherlock's brother earlier that day— and she didn't know why, but her mind kept replaying what that Mike Stamford had said to her earlier at Bart's. It wasn't even that big of a deal, really, and she knew he didn't mean anything by it, but…it still kind of hurt.

It didn't hurt nearly as bad as what Donovan had said, though, because that was actually _intentional_.

She sighed forlornly.

After what felt like hours of tossing and turning with no success of falling asleep, Harley decided to give up trying to sleep and, with a huff, she quickly shifted out of bed and left her room. She shuffled down the hallway until she stopped in front of John's room. Quietly cracking the door open, she peeked into the room to find her uncle sleeping soundly on his side, his body moving up and down in time to his breathing. His back was turned to her and he was wearing a sleeveless shirt, so she was able to see some of the red scar tissue behind his shoulder where he had been shot in Afghanistan. Harley winced, as that was the first time she's ever actually seen the result of his injury. _Ouch._

Deciding not to wake and disturb him a long moment later, she slowly backed away and closed the door before she trekked downstairs. Perhaps she could just stay in the living room— maybe read a book or something— until the sun came up. Hopefully, Sherlock wouldn't mind, on the likely chance he was still up and about.

She made her way downstairs and saw that, sure enough, Sherlock was still wide awake, typing away on John's computer at the table in the living room.

He stopped upon hearing Harley enter the room. His eyes flitted over to her, not surprised to see her.

"Can't sleep, I see. Mutant insects plaguing your thoughts?" he asked drily, turning back to the laptop.

 _I wish,_ she thought.

For a moment, she just stood in the doorway warily. When he didn't tell her to go back to bed, she took a steady breath and continued, approaching him. She looked over his shoulder to see several tabs open on the computer; the one Sherlock was currently on looked like what appeared to be old yearbook photos. Very old yearbook photos.

Harley tilted her head curiously, observing the many young faces on the page, until she came across the picture of a boy with the name Carl Powers.

After catching Sherlock's gaze with a questioning look, he told her, "Just looking for any leads on who our bomber might me. It's a stretch, but it's possible that he's a fellow student of Powers."

 _Oh…_ Harley slowly sat down into the chair next to him, thoughts about the bomber coming back into light. She glared at the laptop, feeling troubled.

"What is it?"

She blinked and looked up at Sherlock, who stared expectantly at her.

She shook her head, but when he merely intensified his gaze, wordlessly pressing her, she knew it was no use. She spotted the notepad on the table and reached for it, along with a pen, opening it to an empty page, and wrote:

 _Nothing, really. Just a strong feeling that the bomber is the one who's been posting all those anonymous comments on your website as well as on John's blog. The one who sent you those codes a while back._

"Ah, yes. I can see why you'd think that. While the messages the person sent would indeed appear off-putting to some, I doubt that he would actually be…" he suddenly trailed off, a thought occurring to him. "Hang on…" he turned to her, his expression betraying a hint of astonishment, "You've been on my website?"

Her eyes flicking to the left, then back to him, she nodded slowly in confusion.

His face then seemed to take on a look somewhere between hopefulness and pride. "Well, what did you think?" he asked, his tone calm but with an edge of eagerness.

 _Uhhh…_

Not entirely sure what answer he was anticipating to get out of her, she cautiously wrote down the first thing that came to mind:

 _I had no idea there were so many types of tobacco ash._

That was apparently good enough for him. He smirked. "Yes. No one ever thinks something such as tobacco ash could be essential to criminal investigation, but quite the contrary. It's helped me solve many cases, including the murder of a man who had died of asphyxiation. He had poison mixed into the tobacco he'd usually put in his smoking pipe."

Her lips twitched up, finding it kind of endearing to see him so proud of something like that. Then she wrote down and showed him:

 _I think my favorite case of yours has to be The Green Ladder— how a man's simple superstition led to his demise. That was amazing._

His smirk spread into a smile as he reminisced. "That one was difficult at first. If the wife hadn't thrown salt over her shoulder when I spoke with her, I probably wouldn't have considered he was superstitious. But when she did, the rest came easily."

She smiled back. _Of course it did._

"And you've seen the codes on my site too," he said. "Did you try solving them?"

She nodded before writing:

 _The second one took me a while to solve, though._

She didn't bother pointing out how creepy the actual messages were. She doubted he even cared about them anyway.

Sherlock snorted. "Consider yourself lucky to have solved them at all."

She shrugged.

Both of them fell silent, and for a while they were like that, Sherlock going back to studying the websites he was on (though she could somewhat tell that his heart wasn't quite in it), and Harley taking a sudden interest in picking at the seams of her jumper. But she wasn't as uncomfortable as she was earlier. In fact, engaging a small conversation with Sherlock had calmed her down some, even taking her mind off of some of the things that have been bothering her— enough for some of the drowsiness to return to her, at least.

Eventually coming to a conclusion, Harley took the notepad back and started writing again. In her peripheral vision, she could see Sherlock stop, as if waiting. She showed him when she was finished:

 _Do you mind if I sleep down here for the rest of the night?_

His eyebrow raised a fraction before turning back to the laptop screen and saying offhandedly, "Do what you like. What do I care?"

She bit her lip before pushing her chair back. However, just as she stood up, Sherlock turned back to her. "Harley?" he said.

She looked back at him expectantly.

His mouth opened to say something, but a few seconds later, he closed it, as though reconsidering something. Analyzing her briefly for one last time, he turned away, frowning at the computer screen. "Never mind. Good night, Harley."

She stared at him in confusion, but he refused to meet her gaze again, so instead she shrugged it off, figuring it was probably nothing.

A corner of her mouth curving up into a serene smile, she leaned in and kissed him lightly on the cheek goodnight. She couldn't help but smile even more when he tensed up in his seat, eyes widening, before he quickly reverted back to his stony expression like nothing had happened.

Sighing tiredly, she took the Union Jack pillow and afghan blanket from the red chair and went to lie down on the couch, her back facing the rest of the room.

As she closed her eyes and relaxed, listening to nothing but the sound of Sherlock quietly typing behind her, her thoughts drifted back to her visit with Mycroft, recollecting all of the things he'd said regarding her and Sherlock. She remembered Mycroft's request for her to spy on Sherlock for him. And after some deliberation, she decided not to do that. Whatever Sherlock's done in the past, it was in the past— and all his business. She was no one's messenger girl, and certainly no one's snitch.

Especially not the government's snitch.

(And furthermore, why did Mycroft even need her to spy on his brother for him if he had the entire nation's _security_ at his disposal? Was he really that lazy?)

She also remembered Mycroft asking her something about perhaps keeping in touch with Sherlock even when she left and returned home. She never really considered that before, but now that she'd been asked, it kind of sounded like a good idea. Of course, she and John texted and emailed each other all the time, but with Sherlock….she didn't know. Maybe he could send her messages, telling her about some of the future cases or experiments he'd work on. Perhaps they'd send theories and notes back and forth with each other.

She knew that it all sounded like wishful thinking and that she probably shouldn't consider it, but to her, the idea sounded and felt so…comforting. She didn't know why, but it did.

Maybe it was because, like what she told Mycroft, Sherlock listened to her. And even when she went home, it'd be nice to know that there was someone out there who still did.

And besides, there are more holidays from school for her to come back.

Smiling a little at that idea, she slowly dozed off into an easy sleep, thoughts of a promising future after this whole ordeal was over with giving her a little peace of mind…

…until it would all come crashing down.

* * *

 **A/N- Man, have I ever mentioned how much I love writing the interactions between John, Sherlock, and Harley- whether all together or one-on-one? HHHHNNNGGG! God, I can't with these three! And hey, this chapter was a bit longer than the recent ones, so...*COUGH*Happy now, Lady Artimes Blaine?*COUGH***

 **Also, if anyone's curious, the movie they were watching was the 1954 American film, _"Them!"_ **

**Neat title, don't you think?**

 **Again, sorry for the wait. I had some adjusting and healing to go through before I was able to even look at my computer again. Believe me, if I ever stopped writing a story entirely, I'd let you guys know. I may be an asshole, but I'm an asshole who cares.**


	30. The Game Changer

**A/N- Swiggity swoogity swag, guess who's back!**

 **Whaddup, my tender Thanksgiving turkeys! How's it going? Enjoying the holidays?**

 **School's been kicking my ass lately, but since I had a whole week of Thanksgiving break off, I finally got enough time to sit down and write the next chapter! *WhoopWhoop* Hope y'all are happy about that (considering I got quite a few messages telling me to hurry the hell up). *pulls on collar nervously* heheh...**

 **Disclaimer: I only own my OC.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

It seemed that every occupant of 221B had subconsciously decided to have a late start the morning after the second puzzle was solved. That was fine with Harley— and she greatly appreciated the extra sleep. Yet, despite the fact that she'd slept longer than usual, she was somehow _still_ the first one up from everyone else. Waking up to nothing but silence and an empty living room, Harley got up and folded the afghan blanket before she set it back on the red chair along with the pillow. She spared a glance over at the desk before she left the room, spotting the now closed laptop with some papers scribbled with notes surrounding it. Sherlock must've gone to bed sometime in the night. She wondered if he had found anything that could help him regarding the identity of the bomber.

 _The bomber…right. He's still out there somewhere._

She let out a soft sigh before she went to her room to change clothes and freshen up. Then, afterwards, she decided to get her backpack ready. She figured that after all that's been going on the past couple of days, with the bomber and all of these puzzles that were being given to them, they'd most likely be on the move again— courtesy of Sherlock, who seemed to be enjoying this a little too much and dragging her and John along for the ride, whether they wanted to or not. So, she might as well be prepared for anything and started to pack any essentials that she had with her.

Once that was taken care of, she returned downstairs— with her backpack in tow— and started making coffee for three. She had heard John beginning to stir when she passed his room on the way down, and she had a feeling that Sherlock wasn't far behind him.

She enjoyed some time to herself at the kitchen table, quietly sipping her coffee, until about five minutes later, Sherlock emerged fully dressed from his room.

"Morning," the consulting detective greeted her in his usual blunt, straight-forward manner— which, as Harley had grown to understand, was the most polite that he was capable of being in the morning.

She smiled in return before pointing to the still-hot brewed coffee she had left, as well as two mugs of choice and sugars at the counter.

As he poured himself a cup, he cast Harley a sideways smirk. "Hopefully, this coffee is better than Bart's."

She grinned in amusement. _Trust me, anything is better than that liquid atrocity,_ she thought.

"It's highly likely that we'll be in touch with the bomber again soon, and be given another case to solve. So we'll probably be out the whole day," he told her before taking a sip. His eyes flicked to her backpack that was lying at her feet. "But I can see that you've already anticipated that."

She nodded. _The scouts would've loved me._

Not very long after, John joined them. However, when Harley offered him coffee, he politely declined.

"Actually, I'm in the mood for a real hot meal right about now," he said. "What you do think about eating breakfast out this morning?"

Harley agreed, actually in the mood to eat a proper breakfast for once. Sherlock merely responded with an offhanded, "If we must."

And so the three of them got ready to leave. Before they departed, though, Harley took a thermos and filled it with the leftover coffee that John didn't drink. There was no use in wasting good coffee.

"Harley, are you sure want to—" her uncle started to protest, but then Harley shot him a look, and he put his hands up in surrender. "Okay, fine. Don't blame me when you get all jittery and have to use the toilet every five minutes."

 _The crosses I have to bear,_ she thought.

They ended up walking a little ways away from Baker Street and into a small, local café, where quite a few people seemed to have the same idea as John and wanted breakfast out. The restaurant was buzzing with people chattering amongst themselves and the television blaring overhead against a wall. They managed to find an open table against the wall and sat down. Harley and John settled in next to each other while Sherlock sat alone across from them. While John ordered food for him and Harley, Sherlock took the pink phone out and placed it on the table in front of him, and Harley passed the time by reading all of the handwritten signs and menus on the wall until their food arrived.

"Feeling better?" Sherlock asked them after a few minutes.

John hummed a yes, continuing to eat, and Harley nodded once.

"You realize we've hardly stopped for a breath since this thing started," John said. "I think this is the most settled we've ever been away from the flat."

Harley glanced up at Sherlock when he merely shrugged indifferently to the remark, noticing his fingers drumming repeatedly against the table next to the phone, as well as his stiff posture and the way his eyes would often train themselves on the phone. It didn't take a genius to gather that he was impatient to get on with the next puzzle.

Harley was a bit eager to get all of this over with too, to be honest. But it was still nice to have a little down time, like what they were having at the moment. Just sitting together, enjoying a meal. It was nice.

The calm before the storm.

A few minutes later, John spoke up again, "Has it occurred to you—"

"Probably," Sherlock said flatly.

John sent him a disapproving glare. "No. Has it occurred to you that the bomber's playing a game with you? The envelope, breaking into the other flat, the dead kid's shoes— it's all meant for you."

"Yes, I know," Sherlock answered with a hint of a smile.

Harley frowned. _Well, I'm glad you see it that way._

"Is it him, then?" John asked, "Moriarty?"

Sherlock's smile faded at the question. "Perhaps," he said softly.

Harley looked between them, puzzled. Were they talking about the name that the cabbie had called out before he died? The so-called fan of Sherlock?

Then, almost as if the pink mobile had heard them, the device beeped, alerting them all of a new message. Sherlock switched it on, and this time, _three_ Greenwich Time signal pips rang out, followed by a picture popping up. They leaned closer to see it better. It was a close-up photograph of a middle-aged woman; with short, obviously fake blonde hair, too much make-up on her face, expensive jewelry, and a big, winning smile. Harley peered at the picture, feeling like she should know the person from somewhere.

However, before she could ponder more on the woman in question, she was startled, jumping a little, by her phone vibrating and ringing the default ringtone from her pocket. She pulled it out, surprised. She usually never received actual phone calls save for the occasional telemarketer— only texts and emails from her personal contacts. She looked down at it and saw that she was getting a call from a blocked number.

Harley glared at the phone with contempt. _Oh, God, is this Mycroft again?_ Wasn't it bad enough that he wanted her to be his personal tattle-tale? Now he was personally insulting her by trying to talk to her via phone?

She pushed decline and brought her attention back to the matter at hand. Sherlock furrowed his brows at the picture, seeming to have no idea who the woman was. "That could be anyone," he said with slight frustration.

"Well, it could be, yeah," John said, getting up. "Lucky for you, I've been more than a little unemployed."

"What? How do you mean?" Sherlock asked.

John smirked. "Lucky for you, Mrs. Hudson and I watch far too much telly." He pointed at Harley. "And it just goes to show, books aren't the only reliable source!"

Harley shook her head with a fond smile. _Yeah, right._

He strode over to the front counter, smiling at the lady at behind the counter before taking the remote control, and he started flicking through the channels on the telly.

While he was doing that, Harley's phone rang again. Another blocked number. Harley rolled her eyes, before hitting decline once more. Why couldn't Mycroft just leave her alone?

She looked back up to see that John had stopped on a particular channel, where the woman from the photograph was on screen— make-up and trendy designer clothes and all.

"Thank you, Tyra! Doesn't she look lovely, everybody, now?" she said cheerfully, gesturing to someone off-screen. Harley watched as the woman continued to talk to the audience about trendy clothes and jewelry, an eyebrow raised. Now she recalled where she's seen the person from. It was Connie Prince, a television celebrity talk show host specializing in beauty, cosmetics, and fashion design. Mrs. Hudson watched her show and talked about her a lot— _really_ , a lot— whenever she could. She tried to get Harley interested in it once, but Harley wasn't very much into those kinds of things.

She was pulled out of her observations when, to her annoyance, her mobile rang for the third time. Sherlock's brother certainly was relentless. Looking down at her phone, she sighed in exasperation and pushed talk, putting it to her ear. She might as well see what Mycroft wanted.

For a long moment, there was silence on the other end until Harley heard someone breathing heavily through the speaker. Harley frowned in confusion, but then a voice finally spoke through, and she froze, her confusion instantly morphing into shock.

Because it wasn't Mycroft.

 _"_ _Nice…of you…to finally answer…dear Harley,"_ an old woman's weak voice quivered through the phone. _"Thought…I had to get…your attention…another way. Would've been…tedious for me…and horrible…for…you...and the old bag speaking to you."_

Harley's stomach tightened, feeling all of the blood drain from her face and a wash of terror and alarm sweep over her as she stared ahead at nothing and continued to listen.

 _"Now...p_ _lease…be a good…little mute…and hand the phone over…to Uncle Sherlock."_

Her heart pounded in her chest. Slowly, Harley turned toward Sherlock, who was looking at her with a frown for who knew how long, obviously wondering why she looked so distressed. Though, when she locked eyes with him, he seemed to immediately understand, his face blanking. Her hands beginning to shake, Harley reached the phone out toward him. He took it from her.

"Hello?" he said in a low voice through the phone.

Despite the fact that her heart was beating loudly through her ears now, Harley could still hear the words of a most dangerous criminal through the old woman's voice loud and clear, _"This one…is a bit…defective. Sorry. She's…blind."_

"Why have you called through this phone?" Sherlock asked, glancing at Harley.

 _"_ _Just…seemed…fitting…for a defective hostage…to call…a defective child. Thought it'd be…funny."_

Harley's eyes widened, if that was possible at this point, her mouth parting. She felt like someone had just punched her and kicked her multiple times, then mercilessly threw her into a rubbish bin. Her hands clenched into fists, feeling sick to her stomach.

" _Speaking of….this puzzle is…a funny one,"_ the old woman's voice continued. _"I'll give you…twelve hours."_

"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock finally asked.

 _"_ _I like…to watch you…dance."_ At the last word, the old woman let out a terrified sob before the line went dead.

Harley stared at her mobile, almost in a horror-stricken daze, until her eyes flickered to Sherlock, who was still looking at her emotionlessly, then to her uncle, who had sat back down next to her and was staring at her with upmost concern. Then she moved her gaze to the telly, which still showed the woman from the picture, only now it had a caption on the bottom of the screen that read, " _Make-Over Queen Connie Prince dead at 48,"_ with a news caster commentating over. But it sounded too distant to Harley to hear. It didn't matter to her anymore. All she could hear now was the words of the bomber, echoing in her head, taunting her.

 _Defective child._

She could feel hot tears slowly beginning to sting through her eyes, which only added embarrassment to the abundance of emotions that were rushing through her right now. She shook her head furiously before she shot up from her chair and bolted for the bathroom, not even processing her uncle shouting after her in surprise. She yanked open the door, went in, and slammed it shut. Thank goodness it was a single bathroom. She was all alone— which was just fine with her.

 _Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God!_ she thought repeatedly as she started pacing around the small bathroom area, her panic and anxiety rising drastically with every second. _This isn't happening. This isn't happening!_

 _Defective child…_

 _SHUT UP!_

She was practically pulling at her hair now, her teeth clenched, feeling like she was about to explode.

She didn't know how long she was like this, but she eventually stopped pacing and stood in front of the mirror above the sink, staring at her reflection. She looked exactly like how she felt: desperate, scared, and angry all at once.

 _Okay. Okay, just calm down. No need to panic,_ she told herself, hating how pathetic she was being. _I mean, it's only a psychotic criminal mastermind at work here who knows your name, phone number, and probably everything else about you….Oh, Christ._

She felt like she was going to vomit. She was _just_ starting to have a pretty decent day with her uncle and flatmate, until that one phone call had to ruin _everything_.

She clutched both sides of the sink, leaning down slightly, and took deep breaths. After what felt like ages, she finally managed to calm herself down, or as calm as she could get in a situation like so. Then she became aware of someone knocking— no, _pounding_ — on the door from the other side, followed by her uncle's insistent, worried voice. Exhaling heavily, she wiped her face dry of tears that had escaped her eyes, and unlocked the door.

The second John heard the knob click, he burst in, making Harley jump back in surprise.

"Harley!" he breathed out in relief. He grabbed her by the shoulders. "Sherlock told me everything— about the phone call. Jesus, Harley, don't _ever_ just run off when something like that happens!"

Harley lowered her gaze, feeling more ashamed of herself than she already was.

John sighed. "Oh, Harley." He pulled her into a hug, in which she hesitantly obliged to before pulling away a moment later. "The person who's doing this— this monster— he's just playing a sick, sick game, and we're going to find him, no matter what."

Harley looked away, uncertain.

"Until then, you stay with me and Sherlock, at all times, okay? We won't let anything happen to you."

She gazed up at her uncle, her war-hardened, more-than-capable uncle, and nodded lightly.

John brushed a strand of hair out of her face and smiled. "You're strong, Harley. And brave. Don't ever forget that. Come on, now. We've got a case to solve."

Harley sniffed, looking back for a moment in contemplation, before taking her uncle's hand and leaving the bathroom. Sherlock was waiting for them just outside the café, and when they went out to meet with him, he wordlessly held Harley's phone out for her.

Remembering how she'd basically ran off and hid in the bathroom like a coward in front of him, she averted her gaze and she took her phone back, feeling her face burning with shame and embarrassment. She couldn't even look him in the eye.

Apparently, Sherlock had phoned Lestrade regarding the death of Connie Prince while the Watsons were in the bathroom, and the Detective Inspector had confirmed that her body had been sent to St. Bart's morgue and was being looked into for foul play. And so they got in a cab and were on their way, the ride being long, silent, and uncomfortable. Harley sat on John's other side, staring at nothing but her feet the entire time and biting the inside of her cheek anxiously. After finally making to the hospital, they entered the building and headed straight for the morgue, where Lestrade was already waiting for them, holding a case file in his hand. Lying on a slab across the room was the body of Connie Prince, a white sheet covering her from her feet up to her upper chest, her arms out bare.

Harley spared a searching glance at the woman as she followed behind the three men, lagging behind a little. _She really looks different when she doesn't have all of that make-up caked on her._

Lestrade began to read from the file as they approached. "Connie Prince, fifty-four…"

Harley's eyebrow lifted wearily. _Fifty-four? The telly said she was forty-eight. Huh…_

"She had one of those makeover shows on the telly. Did you see it?"

"No," Sherlock replied shortly walking around the body and examining it. John shook his head no, as did Harley. _No, I don't completely hate myself._

"Very popular— she was going places," Lestrade commented.

"Hmm, not anymore," Sherlock said before continuing his observations. "So, dead two days. According to one of her staff, Raul de Santos, she cut her hand on a rusty nail in the garden. Nasty wound. Tetanus bacteria enters the bloodstream…goodnight, Vienna."

"I suppose," John muttered, leaning down to get a closer look at the wound for himself. Meanwhile Harley stood back, away from the body and everyone else, her arms crossed and her head down. After what had happened recently, she didn't feel like she was in her best mindset to do anything in this situation.

Sherlock frowned at the body. "Something's wrong with this picture."

"Eh?" Lestrade asked.

"It can't be as simple as it seems, otherwise the bomber wouldn't be directing us towards it. Something's wrong."

 _Well, yeah…that's pretty much how all these cases have been,_ Harley thought tiredly, but she kept her distance away from them.

Sherlock bent down closer for further examination, taking out his small magnifying glass to uncover smaller details that he might've missed with the naked eye, peering at every aspect of the cadaver that was uncovered.

While Sherlock was observing the body, Lestrade went to stand next to Harley. "Hey, kid, you doing okay?"

Harley looked up at him. But before she could even do anything to respond, Sherlock spoke up without even breaking focus on the body, "Our bomber decided to contact us through her mobile this time, thus calling her out personally. I think you can take a guess for yourself from there, Lestrade."

Harley closed her eyes before she buried her face in her hands, faintly hearing John hiss furiously, _"Sherlock!"_

Harley lifted her head from her hands, but she turned away, not facing any of them. As rude as that was...he was also right. She sighed. Then she felt Lestrade's cautious hand rest on her shoulder in a comforting manner, which helped her…a little.

After a few minutes of awkward silence, Sherlock called John over. "The cut on her hand— it's deep. It would've bled a lot, right?" he asked the doctor.

"Yeah," John agreed.

"But the wound's clean… _very_ clean. And fresh." He snapped his magnifying glass shut and straightened. "How long would the bacteria have been incubating inside of her?"

"Oh, eight— ten days," John calculated.

Sherlock smiled slightly.

"The...cut was made later," John concluded.

"After she was dead?" Lestrade asked.

"Must have been," Sherlock answered, "The only questions is: how did the tetanus enter the dead woman's system?" He took a deep breath through his nose and turned to John. "You want to help, right?"

"Of course," Harley's uncle responded immediately.

"Good. Connie Prince's background, family history, everything— give me data."

"Right."

"Harley, you're with me."

Harley nearly jolted on the spot when she heard that directed toward her. She glimpsed back at Sherlock, wide-eyed, before she quickly looked away, biting her lip. John squeezed her shoulder as he walked by her, kissing her goodbye and telling her to stick with Sherlock before leaving. Harley watched him go, not taking her eyes off the doorway even as she heard Sherlock approaching her from behind.

"There's something else that we haven't thought of," Lestrade spoke up.

"Is there?" Sherlock asked, slowing to a stop right next to her. Harley didn't look at him.

"Yes. Why is he doing this— the bomber? If this woman's death was suspicious, why point it out?"

"Good Samaritan," Sherlock said casually.

"Who press-gangs suicide bombers?"

After a brief pause, Sherlock shrugged lightly and replied, "Bad Samaritan."

Harley glared at the white tiled floor in front of her. _Oh, real nice._

I'm serious, Sherlock," Lestrade said sternly. "Listen, I'm cutting you slack here. I'm trusting you, but out there somewhere, some poor bastard's covered in Semtex and just waiting for you to solve the puzzle."

 _It's not just some poor bastard,_ Harley thought, gradually feeling sick again as her fists shook. _It's an old woman. And old,_ blind _woman who was probably specifically chosen just so that the bomber could mess with me._

"So just tell me….what are we dealing with?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock was silent for a moment before he answered softly, "Something new."

 _And dangerous,_ Harley thought as Sherlock started to leave the morgue, and she reluctantly followed suit. She felt that after what had just happened, the rules of the great game have changed somehow. And it left her with nothing but an intuition that it was all going end badly— for all of them.

 _Something very, very dangerous._

* * *

 **A/N- *takes huge swig of apple juice- because I don't drink alcohol* Boy...that escalated quickly. I mean, that kind of got out of hand fast. I might have to find myself a safe house, a relative close by, lay low for a while, because I'm probably going to be wanted for sudden tension to the plot...or maybe not.**

 **I want to take this time to thank each and every one of you who are reading, favoriting, following, and taking the time of the day to review my fic. It really means a whole lot to me. Your words bring me joy and inspiration every time I read them. And I especially want to thank everyone who has wished me well from the last chapter, from the bottom of my heart. These past few months have been pretty rough. There are some days where I really miss my uncle, especially around the holidays, but I am getting a lot better for myself. I just need to keep moving forward. It's what he would've wanted.**

 **So thank you. Very much. *raises glass of apple juice as a toast***

 **Harley: *raises cup of coffee***

 **Me: *looks at her, noticing her eye-twitch* "...I think John's right. Maybe you've had too much."**

 **Harley: _You shut your mouth, heathen! Do not blaspheme my coffee!_**

 **Me: *flinches back in surprise* "Um...okay, then."**


	31. Don't Do Botox, Kids, Not Even Once

**A/N- *Suavely swaggers out of a helicopter while listening to "I Want To Break Free" by Queen* Miss me?**

 **Oh come on, you knew this was coming.**

 **Hello, my succulent, juicy peaches! Did you have a nice holiday? I know I did. Take a guess what I got for Christmas...**

 **...A shit-ton of _Doctor Who_ merchandise. **

**Not that I'm disappointed. Far from it, actually. :D**

 **Also, what did everyone think of season four of _Sherlock_? I'm not going to go into a whole lot of detail here, but I will give brief sentences of my thoughts. First episode was just okay/meh. Second episode, I liked a lot. And the third was... a huge whirlwind that blew all over the place. Not so sure that's a good thing, though.**

 **Disclaimer: I only own my OC. _Sherlock_ belongs to the BBC. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Harley had lost track of how long it's been since the phone call. The long hours had passed by her in a blur— a long, unbearable, mushed together blur. The next time she became fully aware of what was going on around her, she was sitting in the red chair in the living room of 221B, tensely scooted up to the edge as her legs bounced up and down repeatedly, chewing on the tip of her thumb. Closing her eyes and taking a breath, she put her hands on her knees and stilled her legs. Then she looked across the room to where Sherlock and Lestrade were. Lestrade was intently studying a collage of pictures and documents regarding the current case they working on, as well as the past two that were solved with the bomber. Sherlock, on the other hand, was busily pacing behind and muttering to himself.

"Connection, connection, connection. There must be a connection." Sherlock stopped pacing and swiftly rounded back to the collage, gesturing to the many photos and notes as he spouted, "Carl Powers was killed twenty years ago. The bomber knew him— in fact, he _admitted_ that he knew him. The bomber's iPhone was in stationary from the Czech Republic. First hostage from Cornwall, second one from London, and third from Yorkshire, judging by her accent. What's he doing? Working his way around the world? Showing off?"

 _If you call our 'vast' British Islands the world, then yes,_ Harley thought drily.

Then, from the table by the windows, Harley's mobile phone began to ring. Harley inhaled sharply, looking at the lit up screen and finding it to be from the same blocked number from before. She didn't move, and when Sherlock saw this, he went over and picked up the phone himself. He answered it, putting it on speaker.

" _You're enjoying this…aren't you? Joining the…dots…"_ The old woman sobbed.

Harley lowered her head and put her hands over her ears, unable to take it anymore. She waited a few moments, trying to think of anything but the phone call to help calm her down— her uncle's laugh, getting a new book for Christmas, not going back to school— until she chanced a peek up and saw that the phone was placed back onto the table. Sherlock had returned to his position in front of the collage, hands together in his prayer-like manner as he concentrated. Lestrade seemed to be at a loss for words regarding the phone call, until he looked over at Harley. She quickly looked away, trying to keep her heartrate and breathing even. _Why?_ she kept on asking herself. _Why did he have to call on_ my _phone?_

And the things that that woman said the first time— no, what _he_ had said; he was just using that poor old woman because she had a disability like she did, and called her and the woman out on it. Called them _defective_.

It was the first time in a while that she had felt so frightened and humiliated at the same time.

After a few minutes of Sherlock continuing to mutter to himself as he tried to piece everything together, the consulting detective pulled out his own phone and made a call. Harley saw through her peripheral vision Sherlock briskly walking away into the kitchen so as to talk without any disruptions. A moment later, Harley heard Lestrade cross the room and sit down in the other armchair across from her.

"Hey," he said softly, making her look up at him. He gave her a gentle smile. "I'd ask you how you're doing, but I think that'd be a pretty stupid question right about now," he said.

She managed a small smile at that, but it faded as quickly as it came.

Lestrade let out a sigh before shifting so that he was sitting on the edge of the chair, moving closer to her. "That's okay, you know," he told her sincerely. "I don't know what he said to you, and I can hardly imagine what you must be feeling or thinking right now. It's okay. But we're doing everything we can to hunt this guy down and bring him to justice. You know that, right? It is my job, after all."

Harley stared at him, not knowing how to respond to that. In the end, though, she didn't need to. Lestrade got up, only to swipe her mobile phone from the table and approach her once more. He fiddled with the phone for a few seconds, typing away, until he turned it off again and offered it to her.

"I added my personal number to your contacts list," he explained to her as she warily took her phone back and looked through it. "If there's anything you need from me, or if you're ever in trouble and have no one else to go to, you text me immediately. I'll be right there."

Harley closed her eyes, feeling her heart beginning to swell. _Oh, Lestrade…_

Although she doubted that Lestrade would be able to go up against the person behind all of this— at least not without other means of help— and the fact that she had been contacted unsettled her to no end, she still appreciated the gesture. Clutching the phone in her hands, she gazed up at Lestrade and nodded in thanks.

Lestrade smiled before he lightly squeezed her shoulder. "You're a good kid, Harley…and you're in great hands, too." His eyes flickered to Sherlock, who was still talking to someone on his phone as he absently walked back into the living room, back to the wall. Then Lestrade went to rejoin him.

Not long afterwards, Mrs. Hudson came up and joined them, carrying a small tray of light snacks to munch on. She laid it down on the side table next to Harley. But when Mrs. Hudson asked her if she wanted anything, Harley merely shook her head no. She felt like if she consumed anything, she'd just throw it right back up.

"Are you all right, love?" the landlady asked her, concerned. "You're looking a bit under the weather."

Harley nodded, trying to muster up her most convincing smile, in which Mrs. Hudson didn't exactly buy.

"Eat. You'll feel better," she insisted. She fixed Harley with a sharp gaze that could pierce glass, one that the girl couldn't help but shift uncomfortably under. Relenting, she gingerly took a cracker from the tray and put it to her lips, looking like she was about to munch on it. However, when a satisfied Mrs. Hudson turned away, she put it in her pocket. She watched as Mrs. Hudson went to stand next to Lestrade and looked at the collage, making small talk with the Detective Inspector about Connie Prince.

"Great, thank you," Sherlock said suddenly into the phone. "Thanks again." He turned and walked towards the fireplace— towards Harley. Harley quickly moved her legs out of the way as he continued to talk on the phone. Harley looked away— pretty much anywhere but at Sherlock. She stared gravely at her mobile, still held tightly in her hand, while the rest the adults talked amongst one another.

She turned her attention back to them when Sherlock ended his conversation on the phone and went to stand between Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson.

"Who was that?" Lestrade asked him.

"Home Office," Sherlock said offhandedly.

"What?! Home Office?!" Lestrade exclaimed in disbelief.

"Well, home secretary, actually." Sherlock shrugged. "Owes me a favor."

Lestrade just looked even more shocked at this revelation. Harley briefly remembered when she and Sherlock ate at Angelo's restaurant, and the owner had granted the consulting detective free meals for life because he felt that he owed him. With that, and the Home Office comment, it made her wonder who else was indebted to Sherlock.

"She was a pretty girl, but she messed about with herself too much," Mrs. Hudson told Lestrade, referring to Connie Prince. "They all do these days. People can hardly move their faces. It's a bit silly, isn't it?" She giggled, and Lestrade forced a polite smile in return.

Harley had to agree with Mrs. Hudson on that one. People go through all that trouble and spend all that money just to look the way society wants them to— plastic surgery and Botox injections— only to end up looking completely fake. She never quite understood it, and she probably never will.

Mrs. Hudson looked over at Sherlock. "Did you ever see her show?" she asked.

"Not until now," Sherlock answered. He plucked his dark grey laptop from the coffee table and opened it up.

 _Yeah, that'll be the day, when Sherlock watches a beauty show for fun,_ Harley thought as she stood up from the chair and quietly made her way over to them. Careful not to be too close, she stepped up next to Sherlock to peer at his computer screen, which showed the celebrity's website. A video was playing.

" _You look pasty, love!"_ Connie said to a rather large, middle aged man who, in Harley's opinion, looked a little like a male version of Connie without all the make-up and feminine clothing.

" _Ah, rained every day but one,"_ the man said to the audience.

"That's her brother, Kenny. No love lost there, if you can believe the papers," Mrs. Hudson explained conspiringly.

"So I gather," said Sherlock, furrowing his eyebrows at the screen. "I've just been having a very fruitful chat with people who loved this show. Fan sites— indispensable for gossip."

 _In that case, you should have quite the field day with Tumblr,_ Harley mused, a hint of a smirk playing at her lips. Then she looked up and caught Sherlock glancing down at her, and she quickly averted her gaze back to the video, her face swept blank.

"… _really only one thing to do with that ensemble, don't you think, girls?"_ Connie said to the audience while gesturing to her brother and his clothes. Then she stood from her stool and began to chant while clapping rhythmically, _"Off! Off! Off! Off!"_ The audience joined in with her chanting as she started to smack her hands hard onto her brother's back, who had a pained expression at first but then turned a false smile toward the screen as he began to unbutton his shirt.

Harley swallowed, feeling suddenly queasy at the sight of Connie repeatedly beating her brother on the back without showing any signs of stopping, though she didn't know why. She turned away, going back to the chair. She took a deep breath, before letting it out slowly. She wiped her sleeve across her forehead; she had started to sweat a little.

Several minutes later, after Mrs. Hudson had left them to their own devices, Sherlock's phone rang. Sherlock checked the caller ID and answered. "John," he said.

Harley instantly lifted her head up at her uncle's name. There were a few moments of Sherlock listening to what John was saying on the other end until he replied with, "I'll remember," before grabbing his coat and scarf. Then he whirled around and said briskly, "Harley, with me. Now."

Startled by the sudden demand, Harley flinched before she stood and went to get her coat and backpack, while Sherlock made a quick dash to his room, still listening to John over the phone. "Right. Got it," he said before hanging up.

"You know what that's all about?" Lestrade asked Harley.

She shrugged.

By the time Harley had swung her bag over her shoulders, Sherlock remerged with a large bag of his own slung over his shoulder and a long, thin object covered in a black fabric covering— which he handed over to Harley. She pulled apart the opening of the fabric at one end, and saw that inside was a tripod that one would use to place a camera on.

"Let's go," he said before hurrying out the door. Sparing a quick glance at the still-confused Lestrade, she followed the consulting detective out, having to run down the stairs in order to keep up. Sherlock immediately stopped a cab for them.

"Your uncle thinks he found something about the cause of Prince's death at the brother's house," Sherlock explained as they drove off through the streets. "I doubt his findings are going to be relevant, but let's humor him for the time being anyway."

Any other time, she would've found his comment amusing, but not this time. Harley just nodded solemnly as she gazed out the window, gripping the tripod in her lap.

After a few long minutes of silence, Sherlock spoke up again, his voice lowered an octave.

"You're not defective, you know."

Harley blinked, caught off guard, staring ahead at the passing buildings vacantly.

"It's like you informed me once: you're just not like them."

That did it. Harley shut her eyes tight and rubbed them with her sleeve when she felt them begin to sting with tears. She opened her eyes, exhaling heavily through her mouth. Tentatively taking her pen and notebook, she opened up to a fresh page and wrote, for the first time that day, before gently sliding it over to Sherlock:

 _I'm so sorry that I ran off earlier._

"Harley," Sherlock said. His tone prompted her to look at him properly since the café that morning. His face, which was usually a cold and analyzing mask, had softened ever so slightly, that it astonished her a little. "Fear is wisdom in the face of danger. That's nothing to be ashamed of."

Harley lowered her gaze wearily. She guessed that he was right, in some shape or form, even though a huge part of her thought that he was only saying that to get her to stop moping. But then she remembered all of the other times she had felt the same way she did when the bomber had called her— though her feelings may not have been as strong as they were then, when she was very young. Every time a new teacher at her school would yell at her and send her to the office because she didn't answer to them. Every time students in her class would corner her in the hallways, jeering and laughing at her as they closed in. _"Hello? Anyone in there? What's wrong? You gonna cry? You gonna scream? Oh, wait, you can't, can you, freak?"_

Coming out of her reminiscing, she sighed. Then she took her book back, wrote in it, and slid it across the seat again:

 _You know what's really sad? That wasn't the first time someone's called me defective. I try my best not to let anyone see that they got to me, but every once in a while, someone surprises me._

"Hmm…yes, I suppose a call from a bomber would _really_ throw someone for a loop," Sherlock muttered after a pause.

Despite everything, Harley scoffed softly, her lips quirking up faintly. Sherlock smirked.

"And trust me, I know all about being called things that I know for a fact that I'm not."

 _Of course,_ Harley thought, remembering the unkind words of Sebastian Wilkes and Sally Donovan. _How could I have forgotten?_

"But Harley," he continued, and she looked up at him again, "the person behind this is only after me. He wants _me_ to play his game. And all of this— it's just a small part of it. But I assure you, once I finish this game, it'll all be over. In the meantime, you stay focused and vigilant…" at this, he fixed her with his piercing gaze, "…and never let him see that he gets to you."

After a brief moment of silence between them, Harley's face hardened, and she nodded curtly with a determined understanding.

The rest of the ride was silent, until several minutes later they pulled up in front of the address of the brother's house, which wasn't very big, but still looked well-taken care of and expensive.

Harley glared up at the house as she rested the tripod on her shoulder. _Right, then,_ she thought, slamming the door of the cab behind her. _Let's take this mother out._

Together, she and Sherlock walked up to the front door of the house. Sherlock rang the bell, and a few seconds later, the door was opened by a thin young man with olive skin, dark hair, and wearing a dark but sleek suit. Something about him to Harley just screamed house-boy.

"Can I help you?" he asked, looking over Sherlock with mild suspicion and then Harley.

Sherlock plastered on his fake smile. "Hi. We're here for the interview. My colleague should already be inside."

"Oh, yes, yes. Come in." The man opened the door wider. He was about to let them in until he stopped, pointing at Harley. "Wait, isn't she a little young to be…?"

"Yeah, she is. It's job-shadowing day at her school. You know those pesky PTA boards, always cramming extracurricular activities down our children's throats," Sherlock said with a playful roll of his eyes.

Harley had to fight to hold back a snort at the moment's notice lie.

At first, the man looked unsure, but he soon relented, "All right, then. Come on in."

 _Well, that was easier than I thought it was going to be,_ Harley mused, sneaking a glance at the house-boy as they strode past him into the house. The second Harley entered, her nose was invaded with the strong scent of heavy disinfectant. She coughed a little, her face scrunched up from the intense smell. _I'm pretty sure there are health code violations against this._

They rounded a corner and found themselves in a bright, elegantly decorated living room. The brother, Kenny, had been standing and fixing his hair in front of the mirror before he turned around at their entrance. John quickly stood up from the couch and turned to them with a smile.

"Ah! Mr. Prince, is it?" Sherlock greeted as he approached the man, hand out to shake.

"Yes, yes," the man replied.

"Very good to meet you."

"Yes, thank you." They shook hands.

"So sorry to hear about—"

"Yes, yes, very kind," Kenny cut in, slightly waving him off.

Meanwhile, Harley went up to her uncle and, checking to make sure the house-boy or Kenny weren't looking, she hugged him.

"Hey," he whispered to her. "I think I may have finally solved this case. Bear with me here."

Then John turned to Sherlock after they pulled apart. "Shall we…?" he called, and Sherlock joined them by the sofa and began rummaging through his bag while Kenny went back to adjusting his hair. Harley placed the tripod on the couch. "You were right, the bacteria did get into her another way," John told him in a low voice.

"Oh, yes?" Sherlock said with a small smirk, taking out a professional photographer's camera.

"Yes."

"Right, are we all set?" Kenny asked them, moving over in front of the fireplace and resting his arm on the mantle in a pose.

"Um, yes," John told him before turning to Sherlock. "Could you…?" he jerked his head in Kenny's direction.

In no time, Sherlock went up to Kenny— perhaps a little too close— and started taking photos, the light flashing and the film clicking.

"Not too close, I'm raw from crying," Kenny instructed, as though he's gone through this motion before recently.

Sherlock checked the picture on the little screen until a shrill mewing brought his attention downwards.

"Oh, who's this?" he asked Kenny.

Harley followed his gaze— and nearly jumped ten feet in the air. _Holy Jesus! They have a sewer rat!_

At least, that's what she thought it was at first glimpse. Upon further observation after recovering, it turned out to be one of those rare, hairless cats with a red collar around its neck.

Of course, that didn't change the way Harley carefully stepped away from it as it rubbed up against Sherlock's legs. Not that she hated cats, per se. She just preferred dogs. And lizards.

"Sekhmet," Kenny told them. "Named after the Egyptian goddess."

"How nice. Was she Connie's?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes. A little present from yours truly." Kenny carefully picked up the cat.

"Sherlock? Light reading?" John reminded him.

"Oh, um…" He swiftly handed Harley the camera while he reached into his bag and pulled out a flash gun. Before Kenny could react, Sherlock thrust the flash gun out and fired it right into his face, temporarily blinding him.

"Bloody hell! What do you think you're playing at?!" Kenny demanded angrily.

Sherlock half-heartedly apologized as he continued to flash the light into his face. Harley, not wanting to feel left out, held up the camera and started taking more pictures, moving around him slightly. During all of the hustle and shouting, Harley could see John sneak in and reach for one of the cat's front paws, rubbing it and putting his nose close to sniff it. Harley frowned. _Wait, does the cat have something to do with all of this?_

"What is going on?!" Kenny yelled over the noise, his eyes still screwed shut.

"Actually, I think we got what we came for," John finally said, pulling away from him. "Excuse us."

"What?" Kenny asked in confusion.

"Sherlock, Harley!" John called to them loudly as he started to make his way toward the exit, grabbing the tripod from the sofa along the way. "We've got deadlines!"

Sherlock and Harley exchanged glances before they hurried to catch up with John.

"But you've not taken anything!" Kenny shouted after them, but he was ignored as they rushed past the startled house boy and out the door.

John was chuckling to himself with joy as they slowed their pace to a normal walk, heading toward the main road. "Yes! Ohhh, yes!"

Harley looked over at him with a small smile. It'd been a while since she's seen him so giddy about something.

Sherlock was smiling too, though not precisely for the same reason. "You think it was the cat," he said. "It wasn't the cat."

John's grin faded.

 _Aaannnd it's gone._

"What? No, yes. Yeah, it is. It must be. It's how they got the tetanus into her system. Its paws stink of disinfectant," John insisted.

"Lovely idea," Sherlock remarked, not convinced.

"No, he coated it into the paws of her cat. It's a new pet— bound to be a bit jumpy around her. A scratch is almost inevitable. She wouldn't have—"

"I thought of it the minute I saw the scratches on her arm in the morgue," Sherlock interrupted, "but it's too random and far too clever for the brother."

Harley tilted her head slightly, thinking about it. She supposed that was so. The brother seemed too caught up in milking in the fame from his sister anyway. But if not him, then who? And how?

"He murdered his sister for her money," John pressed.

"Did he?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Um…didn't he?" John wasn't so sure now.

"Nope. It was revenge."

"What? Who wanted revenge?"

"The house-boy, Raoul. Kenny Prince was the butt of his sister's jokes, week in and week out. Virtual bullying campaign. Finally, he'd had enough— fell out with her badly. It's all on the website."

After pondering this revelation, Harley could see why Kenny did so. If she had a sibling that constantly humiliated her in front the entire viewing world like Connie did, she'd want nothing to do with them either.

"Connie then threatened to disinherit Kenny, but Raoul had grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle—"

"Wait. Wait a second," John cut in, forcing them to stop. "What about the disinfectant, then? On the cat's claws?"

"Raoul keeps a very clean house. You came in through the kitchen door, saw the state of that floor; it's been scrubbed within an inch of its life. _You_ smell of disinfectant now. In fact, I think after just a few minutes in that house, we all do."

Harley made a mental note to try to get the smell off her later.

"So no, the cat doesn't come into it at all. Raoul's internet records do, though," Sherlock finished before he started to walk off again. "Hope we can get a cab from here."

John shook his head in exasperation and a little disappointment. Harley took his hand and squeezed lightly; the best way that she knew how to comfort him. John's face softened, before he sighed and smiled. "You know what…it was kind of silly to think it was the cat, wasn't it?"

Harley only shrugged. She thought that it was a good theory. It just wasn't the right one, is all.

"Yeah…come on, let's go."

They caught up with Sherlock and made it to a busier road. While they waited for a unused cab to come by, Harley held up the camera that Sherlock gave her, looking through the pictures that have been taken. Most of them were either too bright or too blurry, but there were a few half decent photos of Kenny.

"You can delete those if you wish," Sherlock told her. "They're not of any use."

Harley merely nodded lightly in reply as she looked over not only the pictures, but the camera itself. It really was a nice camera; it must've been very expensive. She wagered that he probably got it off of someone who owed him a favor. Tally mark for three if that was so.

Then her eyes glinted deviously as she thought of something. After readying the camera, she quickly wrapped her arm around an unsuspecting Sherlock, pulling him close and angling the camera so that both of them were in the shot— even though the more-than-a-foot height difference made it a bit difficult. Smiling big, she snapped a picture of them.

She let go and checked how the picture turned out, and she grinned amusedly at Sherlock's confused and slightly perturbed face. Then she looked up at the real Sherlock, who was instead scowling at her.

"All right you, give that here," he said sternly, taking the camera away from her and putting it back in the bag. John chuckled at the sight, and when Sherlock wasn't looking, he gave Harley a thumb's-up.

Once they fetched a cab, Sherlock told the driver to take them to St. Bart's before calling up Molly on his phone to have Connie Prince's body ready for them when they got there. He then explained to the Watsons that he needed to run a second autopsy to see what had really killed Connie Prince, and since he had a much better understanding of what they were looking for, it shouldn't take as long as the first time.

And so they eventually arrived at the hospital, and Sherlock practically jogged toward the morgue, eager to get the process over with. The Watsons decided not to join him in the morgue, instead sitting down on a bench in the corridor. While they waited for Sherlock, they passed the time by tapping out random words in Morse Code back and forth with each other. Then Harley wrote to John that she needed to use the toilet, and got up and went into the bathroom just around the corner. When she was finished with her business a few minutes later, she exited the bathroom. However, just as she was about to walk back to where her uncle was, her phone vibrated and bleeped from her pocket, alerting her of a text message.

She stopped abruptly. Feeling a sense of foreboding, she pulled out her phone and, much to her dismay, saw that it was from a blocked number.

And she knew better than to assume that it could be Mycroft now.

Her finger hovered shakily over the screen at first, wondering if she should even look at it, but after remembering what had happened last time she tried to ignore it, she opened the message:

 **No matter where you go, I'll always be 3 steps behind you**

 **GRQ'W WHOO DQBRQH**

 **Sound familiar?**

 **Cheers x**

Instinctively, Harley turned her head to glance behind her, but other than her, the hallway was completely empty. She was alone. She looked back at her phone. _What the…?_

Then she flinched when across the hall, the double doors banged open. She looked over and saw Sherlock come storming out with a satisfied grin on his face and a thick file full of papers tucked under his arm. Quickly, Harley shoved her phone back into her pocket before he had noticed her.

"Got it. Let's go see Lestrade," he said.

Forcing a smile, she walked with him, and they met up with John before they got into the cab and headed for Scotland Yard. The whole ride, though, Harley felt like the phone in her pocket was burning a hole into her. Her mind read and reread the words of the message over and over again, not knowing what they could possibly mean. She couldn't get her mind off of it even after they met up with Lestrade.

"Raoul de Santos is your killer. Kenny Prince's house-boy. Second autopsy shows that it wasn't tetanus that killed Connie— it was botulinum toxin," Sherlock told the Detective Inspector as he brandished the file and handed it over to him. "We've been here before. Carl Powers? Tut-tut, the bomber's repeating himself."

"So how'd he do it?" Lestrade asked as he walked toward his office, the rest of them following him.

"Botox injection."

"What? Botox?" Lestrade stopped and faced him incredulously.

"Botox is a diluted form of botulinum," Sherlock elaborated. "Among other things, Raoul de Santos was employed to give Connie her regular facial injection. My contact at the Home Office gave me the complete records of Raoul's internet purchases. He's been bulk ordering Botox for months. He bided his time, and then upped the strength to a fatal dose."

"And you're absolutely sure about this?" Lestrade asked skeptically.

Sherlock nodded. "I'm sure."

Lestrade pursed his lips before replying with, "All right. My office."

He turned and continued his trek toward his office. Harley followed close behind him. She glanced back once when she heard John say something to Sherlock that she couldn't quite hear, though judging by his agitated expression, she assumed it wasn't good. Frowning, she turned away and went into the office with Lestrade. While they both waited for Sherlock and John, Harley paced around the room a few times until, after making sure Lestrade wasn't watching her, she took out her phone. She read through the message once more, feeling just as lost as the first time she read it. Shaking her head, she exited out and checked the time. They had less than an hour to let the bomber know that it was solved. She desperately hoped that the old woman would be saved.

Finally, Sherlock and John joined them, John still appearing to be frustrated. With Sherlock seated at the desk with Lestrade's laptop and the rest of them gathered around him, he logged into his website and typed on the forum:

 **Raoul de Santos, the house-boy, botox.**

He hit send, and almost immediately, the pink phone rang beside him.

Harley let out a breath she didn't know she was holding, feeling a sense of relief that the bomber had decided not to call on her mobile this time— though that didn't altogether put her at ease. She leaned down to further listen in when Sherlock answered the phone. "Hello?"

 _"Help me,"_ the poor old woman cried out in terrified anguish.

"Tell us where you are. Address," Sherlock told her in a clear voice.

Then Harley's brows furrowed when the woman, instead of giving an address, began to say, _"He was so…his voice…"_

Her breath caught in her throat when she realized that she was trying to describe the bomber. Sherlock picked up on that too.

"No, no, no, no!" Sherlock cut her off urgently. "Tell me nothing about him, nothing!"

 _"He…he sounded so…soft."_

That was the last thing the woman said before, to Harley's horror, she heard what sounded like a loud bang, and the connection cut off in an instant, leaving nothing but a long, droning noise.

 _No._

Harley straightened as she stared at the phone, feeling like she was going to be sick.

"Hello?" Sherlock called out into the phone, though he knew that it was no use.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade said after a moment of silence.

"What's happened?" John asked.

Sherlock said nothing as he slowly lowered the phone with a blank, yet grim face, and they knew then what had happened, bowing their heads gravely.

The old woman was dead.

Harley didn't even remember the cab ride back to Baker Street after that— only that it was deathly silent between all three of them. She felt numb and defeated, and when they finally stepped out of the cab and into 221B, she had an intuition that Sherlock was feeling the same way. He remained silent as he walked straight upstairs, down the hall and into his room— all with his face tense the whole time, not even sparing a glimpse at either of them. He shut the door loudly, and he didn't come out for the rest of the night.

Harley looked over at her uncle as he carefully took his coat off and hung it up. He didn't meet her gaze, but she could still tell that he was upset about it too— angry, even.

Knowing that it was probably best they all not recall what had transpired for the rest of the night, Harley solemnly retired upstairs and into her room. She changed into her pajamas and sat on the bed. But she didn't intend to fall asleep so soon.

She had another matter to attend to.

She took out her phone and opened up the strange text she had gotten, while also getting her notebook and pencil.

She read the message over and over, trying to figure out what it meant. Clearly, the bit with a letters jumbled randomly together was some sort of code, just like from the hidden messages on Sherlock's site. Though that didn't calm her fears one bit. That must've meant that just like how there was a code, there had to be a clue in the rest of the message on how to decipher it.

She read it over once more.

 _No matter where you go, I'll always be 3 steps behind you._

Harley blinked. Three steps behind you?

Eagerly, she put the phone down beside her as she flipped open to a blank page in her notebook. Her brain reeling as she studied the letters closely and corresponding with the decoding method, she wrote down the letters to be replaced with the original ones. Her writing hand began to quiver the more she did so. When she was finished, she sat up, reading the message with a heavy feeling growing inside her:

 **DON'T TELL ANYONE**

For what felt like hours, Harley sat there, staring emotionlessly down at the message in her own handwriting, the words searing into her vision. The more she stared, the more she felt a bitter, dark emptiness inside her. Why, she did not know.

Then, her teeth clenching furiously, she swept her hand across the bed, knocking the notebook and phone to the floor with a clash. She ran her shaking hands through her hair, pulling at the base of her scalp, breathing raggedly.

 _What is WRONG with me?!_

After a long time, when her breathing had smoothed down to normal, Harley slowly removed her hands from her hair and raised her head up. She glanced at her book sprawled on the floor next to the bed.

 _Never let them see that they got to you._

She closed her eyes tiredly. Then, reopening them, she climbed out of her bed. With precise, unhurried steps, she left her room, crossed the small hallway, and stepped into her uncle's room.

John was lying in his bed, though he hadn't fallen asleep yet, as shown when he turned over to see Harley as she'd opened the door.

"Harley?" he said softly in concern when she stopped at the side of his bed. However, when he caught her somber gaze, he seemed to immediately just _know_. Without saying another word, he shifted over to make more room and opened the blankets for her, and she crawled into the bed right beside him. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, and she in turn snuggled into him until they were both settled and comfortable. He gently stroked her hair— a gesture that always calmed her, no matter what.

Nothing else was said. Nothing else _needed_ to be said. Listening to nothing but each other's slow and rhythmic breathing, and Harley relaxing at the feel of her uncle's steady heartbeat against her ear, they both eventually dropped off into sleep. Harley didn't know what was to come next, or if she was going to be able to pull through it with all of herself intact. But even through the series of unfortunate events that had occurred that day, in the end, they were still with one another. And that was enough for her.

At least for now.

* * *

 _ **IXQ DQG JDPHV DUH JUHDW GLVWUDFWLRQV**_

 _ **EXW VPDOO WKLQJV KDYH FKDLQ UHDFWLRQV**_

* * *

 **A/N- Hey, Harley isn't the only one who gets a hidden message. Starting from here on to the end of _The Great Game_ (not _EVERY_ chapter, though, mind you), I'm going to leave a little something for you readers to decode at the end of the chapter; it's a thing that I've been thinking of and planning for a very, very long time. The method of how to crack it will be the same as the one Harley used until otherwise.**

 **First one to decipher it gets a crisp high-five. Or just do it for the lolz. ;) #CipherHunt #totallyinspiredbyGravityFalls**

 **Also, to the kick-arse _kickarseanime:_ I believe you mentioned at one point something about imagining Harley trying to take a selfie with Sherlock. Boom. **

**Dagnabbit you mind-reading reviewers are at it again.**

 **One more thing! A while back, I received a message from a guest reviewer,** _ **22ndPilot**_ **(Haha! Awesome name!), and they asked if I had a child actor or model in mind whenever I write Harley.**

 **Answer: No. No, I do not. I know a lot of people on here tend to base their characters off of actors and such, but I don't really roll that way. I feel that if I did do that, that would basically be me telling you that you as a reader are not allowed to imagine up Harley for yourself. I mean, _hopefully_ , I described her well enough earlier in the story to give you a picture of what she looks like.**

 **And no, she's not based off of me either. Harley and I share no physical attributes whatsoever.**

 **Harley: _Thank God for that._**

 **Me: "And what's that supposed to mean?!"**

 **Harley: _Nothing...potato-nose._**

 **Me: "Oh-awww, that...that was uncalled for."**


	32. A River Runs Through It

**A/N- Press: "A.J.! You've been missing from the fanfiction eye for so long! Where were you? Did you suffer from massive writer's block? Were you indisposed for a long period of time? Did you go on some wilderness sabbatical to gain wisdom and inspiration?"**

 **Me: "Naw man I just had school lol"**

 **Press: ...GET HER!**

 **Me: *runs away while laughing maniacally***

 **So, yeah, I'm back! That's a thing! No real excuse for taking months. Just super busy with school and work, and I guess I also needed some time to recover from the absolute weirdness that was season four. And that's me putting it _very_ politely. Sorry about that.**

 **Disclaimer: I only own my OC. _Sherlock_ is owned by the BBC.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

"I don't believe this," John muttered, mostly to himself, as he, Harley, and Sherlock watched the news unfold the story of the exploding flat the following day. The television screen showed a building that had a huge part of it blown to cinders and ashes a few floors up, with the headline reading underneath, "12 Dead in Gas Explosion."

 _"_ _The explosion, which ripped through several floors, killing twelve people,"_ reported the newscaster, _"was most likely caused by a faulty gas main. A spokesman from the utilities company—"_

"Well, he certainly gets about, I'll give him that," John commented.

From across the room on the couch, Harley frowned faintly at him, before returning her attentive gaze to the news report. Her jaw clenched as she did so, her hands curling into tight fists.

"Well, obviously I lost that round, although technically I _did_ solve the case," Sherlock said grudgingly, taking the remote and muting the television, before he explained to John, "He killed the old woman because she started to describe him. Just once, he put himself in the firing line."

"Meaning?" John asked.

"Well, from what I could gather from the previous cases and the way he's been making himself known to us through his hostages, he has to...stay above it all. He makes the plans, but doesn't carry them out himself. He organizes everything— gets others to do his dirty work— but no one ever has direct contact with him. This time, though, due to the old woman's disability, he got involved personally. He spoke to her himself, made her say those things. That one time, he put his identity on the line, and when she started to describe him, she had to go."

"Christ," John muttered, shaking his head.

Meanwhile, Harley's face hardened as she took in what Sherlock had said about the bomber _,_ her eyes never leaving the now soundless television. She thought darkly, _If that isn't just bloody fine and dandy._ The one time the psychopath decided to step out into the playing field himself, it was because he wanted to mess with Harley's head. And what's more…

Harley glanced warily down at her mobile phone, which rested on the arm of the couch next to her. It's been inactive since the evening before— since that last message she received from the bomber. Who knew if or when she would ever get another one like it? It was driving her mad.

"And the Connie Prince murder…he arranged that?" John asked incredulously. "You're saying that people come to him wanting their crimes fixed up, and he actually _does_ it? Like booking a holiday?"

"Novel," Sherlock said softly, and Harley was slightly unsettled to hear a tint of admiration in his tone of voice. However, she forgot about it when the television showed footage of Kenny Prince's houseboy, Raoul de Santos, being escorted out of the house in handcuffs while several photographers and interviewers pushed each other to crowd around him, shouting questions and snapping pictures. The headline underneath read, _"Connie Prince: Man Arrested"_ as Raoul was shown being shoved into the back of a police car. Harley spotted Kenny standing in the front window in the far background, holding his hairless cat as he watched the scene unfold before him.

"He's taking his time for this round," Sherlock said, motioning to the pink phone on the arm of his chair.

 _Maybe he's stopped,_ Harley hoped, before shaking her head a second later. _Oh, who am I kidding? From what Sherlock said about him being in the firing line the last round, he's probably just being extra careful this time._

She looked back down at her phone with distaste. _Then again, that might not stop him from contacting me again, the sick bastard._

"You found anything else on the Carl Powers case?" John asked Sherlock, still watching the telly.

"Nothing. All living classmates check out spotless. No connection," the detective replied.

"Maybe the killer was older than Carl— or even younger?"

"The thought had occurred."

 _So all that research he did the other night was a dead end,_ Harley mused, disappointed. _Either the bomber had no records on himself back then, or he did, and somehow managed to get rid of them. Great._

John finally tore his gaze away from the television, turning to Sherlock. "So why is he doing this, then— playing this game with you? Do you think he wants to get caught?"

Sherlock put his fingertips together, smiling thoughtfully. "I think he wants to be _distracted_."

Harley sniffed. It seemed to her like everyone has done nothing but ask that question since the beginning, including herself: Why was he doing all of this? _I'm starting to think he's just a class act douchebag._

As if there weren't enough of those in the world; now they had to deal with one that had connections and explosives.

Then Harley tensed when John laughed lowly and moved to stand up. She held her breath. "I hope you two will be very happy together," John said softly but with no trace of humor as he started toward the kitchen.

Harley exhaled, thinking that that was all he was going to unleash on account of his anger. She had observed that he was slowly brewing ever since the night before at Scotland Yard, and she was just waiting for it to come out. But maybe this time she would be lucky.

But then, about three seconds later, Sherlock turned to John with a confused frown. "Sorry, what?"

Harley barely had time to think, _Oh, no,_ before her uncle whirled back around to face Sherlock, his face rigid with fury, as he marched back into the room, hands latching onto the backside of the chair. "There are lives at stake, Sherlock! Actual _human_ lives!" he exploded.

Harley winced, eyes shutting tight.

"Just so we're all clear, do you care about that at all?!" John demanded.

"Will caring about them help save them?" Sherlock countered, his voice surprisingly calm.

"No," John answered. His voice had lowered some, but it still produced the same amount of hostility toward Sherlock.

"Then I will continue not to make that mistake."

"Oh, and you find that easy, do you?" John's voice had risen again.

"Yes, very. Is that news to you?"

"No, no it isn't."

After a brief moment, Sherlock stated, "I've disappointed you."

"That's good— that's a good deduction, yes," John retorted venomously.

 _Stop. Stop it. Stop it,_ Harley repeated over and over in her head, her fists clinching so hard, they were trembling.

"Don't make people into heroes; heroes don't exist," Sherlock said. "And if they did, I wouldn't be one of them."

Silence.

Harley opened her eyes, relieved that they had, hopefully, ceased with their argument, before she inhaled sharply through her nose in pain. Looking down, she slowly unfurled her still shaking fingers, revealing dark red spots on her palms.

 _Crap._

She quickly overturned her hands so they were palm-down on her knees as she contorted her face into an indifferent mask, trying to block out the stinging in her hands. Fortunately for her, both men in the room were too busy to notice her discomfort. Sherlock had received a message on the pink phone, making a short pip followed by a long one— "A view of the Thames. South Bank, somewhere between Southwark Bridge and Waterloo," he announced— while John was still steaming from their quarrel.

"You two check the papers for any news regarding the Thames. I'll look online," Sherlock ordered as he pulled out his own mobile.

Feeling the pain in her hands gradually subside, she reached for the pile of newspapers on the coffee table before her. Just as she'd grabbed the one from the top of the stack, Sherlock spoke up once more, his voice now taking on a more mocking tone, "Oh, you're angry with me, so you won't help."

Harley looked up to find John still standing behind the chair, reluctant to comply as Sherlock continued, "Not much cop, this caring lark."

"Yeah, but in case you missed it, I'm trying to instill some morals into my niece over there so she can grow into a decent person while I still can," John said bitterly, pointing at Harley.

Harley lowered her gaze to her paper, jaw tightened in anger, wanting to scream. _Stop. Stirring. The pot._

Sherlock chuckled softly, beginning to type away on his phone. "Oh, I'm afraid you're too late for that, John. Even so, all you'd do is set her up for disappointment in life."

Harley closed her eyes, praying hard for undeserved patience, before unfolding her paper, skimming through it with a stern expression.

John said nothing else in response to that statement. Instead, he sighed in exasperation before moving across the room, sitting down next to Harley on the couch.

Without looking away from her paper, Harley stiffly slid the pile of other newspapers toward him to read for himself.

John glanced sideways at his niece with creased eyebrows before he took a newspaper and flipped it open, looking through it.

"Archway suicide," he read aloud.

"Ten-a-penny," Sherlock replied shortly.

Harley, finding something of her own, not-so-gently put her paper in front of John's and briefly pointed at it before moving on to another newspaper. John frowned at her before leaning in to see. "Two kids stabbed in Stoke Newington." But Sherlock merely shook his head, growing more and more irritated as he continued checking online. John removed the newspapers and found a new headline. "Ah, a man found on the train line, Andrew West."

"Nothing!" Sherlock hissed in frustration, appearing to not have heard that time. His search proving to be fruitless, he hit a speed dial and put the phone to his ear. It only rang once before it was answered. "It's me. Have you found anything on the South Bank between Waterloo Bridge and Southwark Bridge?" He swiftly stood from the chair and walked into the kitchen, listening to what the Watsons assumed was Detective Inspector Lestrade.

As soon as Sherlock was out of the room, John turned to Harley, licking his lips— a habit that Harley had learned was either out of concern or discomfort. Or both. "Look, Harley…" he started, waiting for her look at him.

She didn't.

"Don't…don't take what he said to heart. You know it's not true, right?"

She looked up at the ceiling and sighed. He just didn't get it.

She took her notebook and scrawled in it before sending it his way:

 _I came here to get away from all the fighting, not be dragged back in the middle of it._

John blinked after reading, realization dawning on him. He lifted his head up and finally met her gaze. "Harley, I—"

"Got it!" Sherlock exclaimed, reentering the room. He reached for his coat and scarf as he told them speedily, "Body found on the South Bank of the Thames. Lestrade's on his way there."

John and Harley looked at each other for a moment, before Harley shook her head with a tired expression that said, _Just forget it,_ and stood to get ready to leave as well.

A few minutes later, they were out of the flat and into a cab headed for the Thames, which was only about a ten minute drive— not too far to travel this time. On the way, Harley gazed out her window solemnly, thinking. She wasn't angry anymore, but she wasn't exactly satisfied either. It wasn't the fact that Sherlock came off like he didn't care about the victims involved. In most situations like this, you _have_ to keep your emotions in check in order to help people; otherwise your judgement can be clouded, and nothing would be accomplished. She got that, and John wasn't exactly in the wrong either, calling Sherlock out on it.

She just hated it when people fought, and she _especially_ hated it when she was brought into it.

She figured that it was probably childish to think that way. After all, people are always going to disagree and argue. It was just a part of life; nothing will change that.

Still, though, when you've been brought up in a household like she had, you start to grow an immeasurable resentment towards it.

Glancing down, Harley uncurled her fingers a tad on one of her hands, seeing that the red marks on her palm were still there, though they didn't hurt anymore. Pleased, she closed her hand again.

Soon, the river came into view and they arrived to their destination. After John paid the cabbie, they stepped out and found that Scotland Yard was already there. Ducking underneath the police tape and grabbing latex gloves, they each descended the stairs of the docks toward the underside of the two bridges. Harley watched her step as she carefully followed the two men across the rocky shores of the river, the air smelling of low tide and the concrete walls along the end covered with moss. Around them, forensic officers were spread about working the crime scene. Up ahead was Lestrade, and lying face-up on the ground beside him was a body. A large man. Short brown hair. Wearing a torn, soiled, and stained white dress shirt and black trousers, along with black socks. No shoes.

Harley's nose wrinkled at the sight, then looked out at the russet-colored, flowing Thames beyond her, where seagulls were circling above in search for food among the litter and water life below the surface.

 _Yeah, this is definitely not the first time a body's been washed up here,_ she thought.

"Do you think this is connected, them? To the bomber?" Lestrade called out to them as they approached him.

"Must be. Odd though," Sherlock held up the pink mobile. "He hasn't been in touch yet."

 _And if it isn't, he'd let us know,_ Harley gathered. The theory— no, the _fact_ — still left her unnerved; that the bomber was watching them.

But she wasn't going to let him see that she was.

"So we must assume someone's been primed to explode, yeah?" Lestrade asked.

"Yes."

"Any leads so far?" Lestrade gestured to the corpse.

Sherlock took one look at the body and answered promptly, "Seven, so far."

"Seven?" Lestrade repeated in disbelief.

Sherlock quickly pulled out his pocket magnifier and leaned down, going straight to work with examining the body, moving over the man's upper torso down to his feet, where he took off one of the socks and inspected the whole of the foot. While he did so, Lestrade turned to Harley with a smile. "Hey, kid. How you doing?"

Harley half-heartedly held a flattened hand out and waved it side to side a couple of times: _So-so._

"Oh, really?"

She nodded once, putting her hand back in her jacket pocket.

"Well, better than yesterday. That counts for something, eh?"

Harley looked over at him, her lips threatening to return the smile. It was hard to be in a glum mood with this man around.

Sherlock rose and backed away, finished with his findings. Then he caught John's eye and jerked his head toward the body, wordlessly telling him to check it as well. After a quick look at Lestrade for permission, in which he was given with a _Go ahead_ motion, he squatted down and reached for the body's wrist, clearing his throat. While John began his inquiry from a more medical standpoint, Sherlock pulled off his gloves and started looking through his phone, walking away a few paces.

"He's dead about…twenty-four hours. Maybe a bit longer," John told them before looking up at Lestrade. "Did he drown?"

"Apparently not," the Inspector answered, while Harley crouched down at the body's other side, her eyes narrowing. "Not enough of the Thames in his lungs. It was asphyxiation."

"Hmm, yes, I'd agree. Strangled, perhaps?" John mumbled as he continued searching.

 _Doubt it,_ Harley mused as she carefully lowered the shirt collar and studied the neck and throat area of the man, which was relatively untouched. John followed her gaze and determined, "No, not strangled…yet somehow asphyxiated." He moved up toward the face. "There's quite a bit of bruising around the nose and mouth, though…and more bruises here and here." He pointed out more faint marks around the temples.

"Fingertips," Harley heard Sherlock mutter, and her eyes widened a little with recognition. She snuck a glance down at her palms, which were covered by her gloves, before quickly returning to the body. Whoever left _these_ kinds of marks would've had to have extremely big hands, or be inhumanly strong, in order to inflict death without strangling.

John stood up, and Harley followed suit, stepping away.

"I'd say he was in his late thirties, not in the best condition," he remarked.

"He's been in the river a long while, so the water's destroyed most of the data. Bit of a shame, but not entirely essential," Sherlock said. Then he looked up at all of them, quirking a grin. "I'll tell you one thing, though: that lost Vermeer painting is a fake."

Harley did a double take at him in confusion. Never had she heard something so out of left field before.

"Wait, what? What painting?" Lestrade asked.

"It's all over the place. Haven't you seen the posters? Dutch Old Master, thought to have been supposedly destroyed centuries ago. Now it's suddenly turned up. Worth thirty million pounds."

Harley put a hand to chin, thinking. It was the first time she's heard of it— or perhaps not. Did she never come across it in any of her history books in the past? This might require further research. Even so, she still didn't quite understand the importance of an old painting and how it was connected to this case.

"But what's that got to do with the stiff?" Lestrade questioned, taking her out of her assessment, as well as unknowingly voicing her thoughts.

"Everything. Ever heard of the Golem?"

"Golem?"

Harley raised an eyebrow, the first thing to come to mind not what she expected. _The Pokémon?_

Thankfully, John's guess was a much more logical one. "It's a horror story, isn't it?"

"Jewish folk story, to be precise. A gigantic man made of clay," Sherlock explained. "But it's also the name of an assassin. Real name: Oskar Dzundza, one of the deadliest assassins in the world. That…" he pointed at the body, "…is his trademark style."

"So this is a hit?" asked Lestrade.

"Definitely. The Golem squeezes the life out of his victims with his bare hands."

Harley shuddered, trying not to imagine a monster of a man. If he was able to do such a thing to man of this body's size, the damage he could do to someone of her own build would be even worse.

"But what does all that have to do with the painting? I don't see—"

Sherlock cut him off with an irritated sigh. "You see, you just don't observe."

"All right, all right, girls! Calm down," John intervened before the dispute escalated.

 _Yeah, no need to see two cat fights in one day,_ Harley thought drily.

"Sherlock?" John turned to the consulting detective. "You want to take us all through it?"

Sherlock took a deep breath before beginning his analysis, Harley following along by spotting the things she missed on the body:

"What do we know about this corpse? The killer's not left us with much— just the shirt and trousers. But that's all we need to know that he was at work. Formal shirt. Heavy duty trousers, polyester, nasty, same as the shirt: cheap. They're both too big for him, so it's a standard issue uniform. Dressed for work, then. But what kind of work? There's a hook on his belt, for a walkie-talkie."

"Tube driver?" Lestrade suggested, but judging by the look Sherlock gave him, that wasn't it.

"Security guard?" John tried.

"More likely," Sherlock said before continuing, "That'd be borne out of his backside— flabby. You'd think he'd lead a sedentary life, yet the soles of his feet nascent varicose veins in his legs show otherwise. So, a lot of sitting _and_ walking around. So security guard's looking good. And the watch helps, too. He set his alarm to 2:30, telling us that he did regular night shifts."

"Why regular? You don't think he just set that alarm the night before he died?" Lestrade asked.

"No, no. The set-time buttons on the watch are stiff, hardly touched. He set his alarm like that a long time ago, so his routine never varied."

Harley looked over the body. If his routine never varied, then that would've made anyone who was paying attention to easily figure out the perfect time to strike without being caught.

The old saying to mix things up a little in life suddenly took on a more cautionary meaning to her.

"But there's something else. The killer must've been interrupted; otherwise he would've stripped the corpse entirely."

 _Ugh, thank God,_ Harley thought, disgusted at the image. _I tolerate a lot of things, but necrophilia isn't one of them._

"There was some kind of badge or insignia on the shirt front that he tore off." Sherlock pointed at the front pocket of the shirt, which was torn almost completely off and had loose stitches that were sewed in a certain design. "That suggests that the dead man worked somewhere recognizable, some kind of institution." He dug into his pocket and pulled something out. "Found these in his pockets."

Harley squinted, seeing that it was a scrunched up ball of paper.

"Sodden by the river, but still recognizably…"

"Tickets?" John finished uncertainly.

"Ticket _stubs_."

 _And you just put them in your own pockets, waiting to show them off now, why?_ Harley questioned rhetorically, glaring lightly at him.

"He worked in some kind of museum or gallery. Did a quick check and found that the Hickman Gallery recently reported one of its attendants missing." He gestured to the stiff. "Alex Woodbridge. Tonight they unveil the re-discovered masterpiece. Now, why would anyone want to pay the Golem to suffocate a perfectly ordinary gallery attendant? Remaining data shows that the dead man knew something about it— something that would stop the owner from getting paid thirty million pounds. And that something is the picture is a fake."

There was a short bout of silence as all three of them stared at him, astounded at how easily he came to such a conclusion by stringing together smaller, seemingly insignificant details.

"Fantastic," John said admiringly.

 _Capital,_ Harley mentally added.

Sherlock shrugged. "Meretricious."

"And a Happy New Year!" Lestrade finished jokingly.

Harley snorted, earning her an amused grin from the Detective Inspector.

John threw both of them his _seriously?_ look— the same look Harley inherited— before turning back to the body. "Poor sod," he murmured.

"I'd better get my feelers out for this Golem character," Lestrade said.

"Pointless," Sherlock contradicted. "You'll never find him, but I know a man who can."

"Who?"

"Me."

Harley pinched the bridge of her nose, internally groaning. He walked right into that one.

Before they could take off, though, John stopped them, asking, "Wait, wait, wait. You said this Golem was an extremely deadly assassin?"

"Of course. Possibly the most deadly we'll ever go up against," Sherlock replied, wondering where he was going with this.

"Well, that answers it." John turned to his niece, a conflicted expression on his features. "This one might be way too dangerous for you. 'Course…I don't want to leave you alone at the flat, either."

Harley glanced downwards, eyeing the cadaver and the state it was in due to the suspected murder. _He does have a point,_ she reluctantly agreed.

A moment later, though, Lestrade raised a hand. "If it's all right with you," he said, "she can stay with me for the time being. I'll just go back to the station; go over some old cases and files that could be connected to this one. She'll be safe there."

Harley turned to the Detective Inspector, eyebrows raised in slight surprise.

John considered the idea for a moment, before finally answering, "That'd actually be best."

"Very well," Sherlock said after a moment of deliberation.

Harley frowned. _Seems I don't really have a choice in the matter, but…_ She contemplated the idea of being on her own in the flat, with no one around, with a bomber knowing about her, as opposed to being at the mercy of a giant assassin. _I could think of worse options here._

"We'll call you if we find anything— let you know when we're in the all clear with this Golem," John told Lestrade.

"And I'll call you if I find any more leads on our bomber," Lestrade replied.

Sherlock scoffed at that, making John shoot him a scolding look.

Harley watched her uncle and the consulting detective walk across the shores away from the scene, having mixed feelings about parting ways with them. But that was what John thought was best, and when he decided so, it was difficult to change his mind. So she hoped that if and when they do find this supposed Golem, they'd be able to apprehend him in due time— especially since they all had no idea how much time the bomber was giving them for this round.

"Well, then," Lestrade spoke up, bringing her attention back to him. He smiled. "I think we've seen enough here. You reckon we wrap it up and start heading to the Yard?"

The wind chose that moment to pick up, making Harley shiver. She nodded, wanting to be inside.

After Lestrade gave the order to his forensics team to finish up with their work on the scene, he and Harley headed for the stairs, soon making it above on the docks.

"So, Harley…" Lestrade said by the time they approached his police cruiser, "…how good are you at research?"

Harley stopped dead in front of the car, before she turned to the Detective Inspector, a grin slowly spreading across her face.

Lestrade was slightly taken aback at first, before he chuckled. "I'll take that as, 'very good.'"

* * *

 ** _MLP IURP L.W. LV QRW ZKDW KH VHHPV_**  
 ** _EHZDUH WKH RQH ZKR SXOOV DOO WKH VWULQJV_**

* * *

 **A/N- Little known fact: Harley was once a closet Pokémon fan. Sadly for her, old guilty pleasures die hard.**

 **Again, my bad for the wait. But I appreciate everyone who's been reading and following along being good sports about it. And many thanks to those who have favorited, followed, and left reviews!**

 **I believe that we're only a few chapters away from the end of The Great Game by now. So you all had best watch yourself, 'cause it's about to get schwifty in here! Awww yeahhhh, you gotta get schwiftyyy!**

 ***A giant head suddenly drops down from the sky* "I LIKE WHAT YOU GOT."**

 **Whoa what?!**


	33. Highway to the Danger Zone

**A/N- Hello, my extra spiky pineapples!**

 **I meant to have this chapter uploaded earlier today, but I was otherwise engaged with more, ah...pressing matters.**

 **Harley: _You honestly think that watching the new series premiere of_ DuckTales _constitutes as 'pressing matters?'_**

 **Me: *glares* "If you knew about the distinctive properties of the _Uncle Scrooge_ universe, you wouldn't be asking that."**

 **All that aside, I still feel pretty bad about taking too long with the last chapter, so here: an extra long chapter with two sets of codes to decipher. Go nuts, peeps!**

 **Disclaimer: I only own my OC. Sherlock belongs to the _BBC_ and all that rot.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

It was official: Greg Lestrade was the dorky dad Harley was glad she never had.

Why? Because she didn't know anybody else who drove around London in a patrol car with Kenny Loggins blaring at high volume on the radio, and belting out along to it. She had to admire his persistence to sound in-tune. On the other hand, she also resented his inability to accomplish it.

 _"_ _Hiiighwayyy tooo the Danger Zone! Gonna take you riiight innntooo the Danger Zone!"_

Harley's eye twitched as she simply sat in the passenger seat and endured it.

"What, you've never heard this song before?" Lestrade asked her once the music had faded out to the end, noticing her expression. "Seriously? Does the movie _Top Gun_ at least ring a bell?"

She threw him a dry look before nodding. _Of course I do! Everyone knows this song, it's amazing!_ she thought.

That is, until Lestrade butchered it. Harley was certain he turned quite a few heads of fellow drivers and pedestrians.

Thankfully, the radio station decided to cut to commercial break for the rest of the ride, sparing Harley from any more of his singing. Soon enough, they had pulled up to the familiar building with the Scotland Yard sign rotating around in front. And even sooner, they were in Lestrade's office together. The Detective Inspector offered her a seat while he went around his desk and made a call on his office phone, requesting for specific case files.

"Can I get you a drink? Some water?" he asked her when he was done.

Harley nodded with a small smile. While he left her alone to get a couple of drinks from the water cooler, Harley took out her phone and checked it, absently tapping her foot to an unheard beat.

 _Revvin' up your engine, listen to her howlin' roar. Metal under tension, beggin' you to touch and go…_

She suddenly stopped herself short with a scowl. _Damn it, now it's stuck in my head._

Lestrade returned, giving her a small cup of cold water. Shortly afterwards, Sergeant Donovan entered the room holding a box full to the brim with files and papers. The second she saw Harley, her face turned into an annoyed sneer, as though the mere sight of the girl suddenly ruined her day. "The files you asked for," she told Lestrade tersely.

 _Still salty from last time, I see,_ Harley thought blandly as she took a small sip of her water, trying to ignore the Sergeant's presence, much less take offense to her behavior.

"Thanks," he replied as he took the box and placed it on his desk. Wanting to get straight to work, Harley reached out and took the file on top, opening it.

Unfortunately, Donovan was still there, and wanted to make it known to Harley. "So, it finally happened, didn't it? The freak left you behind?" she asked snidely.

Harley didn't look up at her, but she couldn't stop her hands from clenching the file she was holding tightly.

"That will be all, Donovan," Lestrade snapped in a warning tone, glaring at her with disapproval.

Donovan let out a small huff in exasperation before she finally turned away and marched out of the room, leaving them alone.

Lestrade sighed and shook his head. "Sorry about that," he apologized, "As much as I ask for help from Sherlock, everyone else in my division still need to…adjust to working with him."

Harley looked up from her file at him solemnly, before she took her notebook and wrote in it before showing him:

 _That's putting it remarkably politely._

Lestrade burst out laughing at her comment, and Harley couldn't help but grin. "Yeah, it is. Who am I even kidding?" he admitted, still chuckling. "I won't even begin to tell you all the times he was slapped or punched in the face by nearly everyone out there." He gestured out his office window which viewed the entire floor.

 _That is a lot of people,_ Harley thought with amusement as she imagined all of them standing in a single file queue with numbered slips just to slap Sherlock. As she did so, she spotted Donovan leaning against the desk of a brown-haired man whom Harley recognized as that Anderson from several days ago; the Sergeant had her arms crossed over her chest as she talked amiably to the man, as if ranting. Harley quickly turned back to Lestrade when both Donovan and Anderson looked over in her direction.

 _And those two would be at the very front of the queue._

"Still, though, that doesn't give anyone here the right to treat you any differently, just because you can actually put up with Sherlock," Lestrade said, his smile fading as he turned serious. "I'll have a talk with Donovan later."

Harley stared at him, surprised but touched by his words and how he was standing up for her. She smiled softly at him, and he smiled back, understanding that as a thanks from her. Then, a question coming to mind, she wrote it out in her book:

 _How long have you known Sherlock anyway?_

He thought for a moment before answering, "About five years. I was working on one of those weird cases at the time. We found an old lady in a sauna, but the autopsy came back saying she died of hypothermia. Of course, we were all baffled at how that was possible. Then steps in Sherlock Holmes. At first I didn't take him seriously because at the time he was so…"

He trailed off suddenly, rethinking where he was going with the story, especially to a twelve-year-old child. He awkwardly cleared his throat and recovered with, "Well, he proved me wrong in the end; I'll put it that way. He's been helping me on cases ever since."

Harley nodded, finding it an interesting story despite his vagueness, before they both fell into a comfortable silence as they began their research. The files that they were given were cases that went cold throughout the span of three years. All murders. All causes of death the same: asphyxiation, but not strangled. And they all had bruises and marks in the same area. Just like the body that was found in the Thames earlier that day.

"Our Golem character really gets about," Lestrade remarked sometime later, looking over their progress. They had taken a map of England and hung it up, pinning the locations of the murders all over it. It was a rather wide scale. Harley concurred with Lestrade, feeling unsettled by the thought. The Golem has pulled off a frightening amount of hits in just a few years— and that was just to name the victims that were in the country and the ones that were actually found.

"Also makes me wonder how many of them are connected to our bomber— if any are at all," Lestrade muttered, and Harley nodded in agreement. Although, she wouldn't put it past the bomber to not be involved in any way, especially considering how evasive the Golem was with his work. There was no way he'd be able to pull off something like this without any sort of outside help.

Needing a refill of water, Harley got Lestrade's attention before she tapped twice on her now empty cup, then pointed out the window and toward the water cooler across the way. After receiving the, _Be my guest,_ motion from him, she ventured out of the room, steeling herself.

 _Don't make eye contact,_ she reminded herself as she made her way toward the water dispenser with her gaze lowered to the floor as she passed several officers. To her inconvenience, there was a line to get water, so she had to stay out in the open with so many people around her for much longer than necessary. To keep her distracted from the fact, she took out her phone and began to text her uncle.

 **Any luck so far? – HW**

John must not have been that busy at the time, because she received a reply very shortly after.

 **So far so good. Just got done talking to Alex Woodbridge's roommate. Sherlock's still at the gallery. – JW**

 **So you're going to meet up with him? – HW**

 **That WAS the plan, but Mycroft just texted me. Told me to talk with Andrew West's fiancée. The one whose head was smashed on the train tracks. – JW**

Harley rolled her eyes, though she was somewhat relieved that Mycroft hadn't contacted her again about it. Perhaps he took her request seriously after all.

 **Mycroft's really pushing that case on you guys, isn't he? – HW**

 **Yeah, I know, it's annoying. But if it'll put him off Sherlock's back, I'll do what I can to help. – JW**

Harley shook her head with a hint of smile on her face.

 **You're too good for this world. You know that, right? – HW**

 **Sure. :)** **–** **JW**

By the time she got that last message from John, the water jug was finally free to use, and she put her phone away and started to pour water into her cup.

All she wanted was a drink. That was all. It wasn't too much to ask.

So when she felt the presence of someone coming up behind her, and when that someone began to speak in a familiar nasally voice, she couldn't help but get the intuition that the Lord above was testing her.

"So, our favorite psychopath got John back, didn't he? Left you with us to be saddled with now?" Anderson asked, basically paraphrasing Donovan's question back to her, only this time he didn't have Lestrade present to reprimand him.

Harley stiffened where she stood, but a moment later she exhaled heavily as she finished refilling her cup. _Just ignore him,_ Sherlock's advice from the time they were in the Yard together came to mind.

Unfortunately, that only seemed to work on competent people who could get a clue.

"Word is that you can't talk," Anderson continued. "Is that true?"

The fact that he actually waited for a verbal reply to that— let alone that he asked that at all— prompted her to glance at him over her shoulder, her eyes narrowed. That was literally the stupidest thing she's heard in days. _Say that again, but slower._

Somehow, not soon enough, Anderson put two and two together on the reason why Harley was giving him such a look. He shifted uncomfortably before he regained his arrogant demeanor. "Hmph. That must be why the freak keeps you around; knows you won't talk back to him when he insults you."

 _Kind of like what you're doing right now?_ Harley thought snidely, now glaring at him. Although she was used to this sort of treatment on occasion, it still infuriated her to no end. Deciding that she's heard enough from this idiot, she turned and started walking around him, not sparing a glimpse at him, as she took a drink of water.

"Or maybe," Anderson said as she passed him, "you're just using that as a cover up to sniff around and relay personal information back to him."

Harley stopped, but not out of anger. _Now, that…that's a new one,_ she contemplated, mildly impressed. Still, though, it was bad enough he was an imbecile; now he was a _paranoid_ imbecile who had the idea that she was simply there to spy on him and spill his private life to Sherlock. She didn't know why he was so worried, though. It didn't take a whole lot of spying to see that the man was cheating on his wife with the Sergeant, judging by the lingering scent of Donovan's perfume still on him and the faintest trace of what Harley assumed was a hickey on the lower part of his neck, adding the fact she'd noticed Anderson's wedding band— which was constantly removed from his finger, going by the unnatural cleanliness of it and lack of a tan line— and a picture of a woman on his desk that clearly wasn't Donovan. It was rather obvious.

Harley smirked, feeling proud of herself. It seemed that those lectures about the science of deduction and observation from Sherlock were starting to pay off.

She looked back at Anderson, who was watching her with an accusing frown. After a moment, she came to a conclusion, and she flicked her eyes over to Donovan, who was obviously watching them, and held her gaze. Then she returned her stare to Anderson and, very deliberately, her lips curled up to form her most evil grin. The look of borderline horror that now donned the man's face was enough to tell her that she'd gotten the intended effect, and with a satisfied air, she turned her back on them and made her way back to Lestrade's office.

 _That should keep them away from me for the time being, hopefully,_ she thought.

She pulled out her phone again once she was back in the safe confines of Lestrade's office, and saw that she had gotten another text from John.

 **How are things going on your end? Being good for Lestrade? – JW**

 **No, I started a riot. The whole place is burning to the ground as I send this. – HW**

 **Ma'am, I'm gonna have to ask you to take your sarcasm to the back seat please. – JW**

Harley smiled. Only John Hamish Watson's sass could possibly rival her own.

 **Yes, of course I'm being good. Lestrade's nice. And we've done some digging of our own. Found up to 68 unsolved murders that match the Golem's trademark method for the last three years in the country alone. –HW**

 **That's…disturbing to know. – JW**

 **Right? – HW**

Then Harley looked over at Lestrade's unused computer on his desk, getting an idea. She quickly texted to John again.

 **I'm going to do some research on that painting Sherlock mentioned too. Maybe find out how it could be a fake. – HW**

 **Good thinking. I'll let you know when we're in the all clear. -JW**

 **OK. –HW**

She shut her phone off and put it back in her pocket. She was just about to get her notebook to ask Lestrade if she could use his computer, but then the DI stood up and stretched out his back, having been sitting for so long. He checked his watch. "Wow, it's already getting late," he commented before turning to Harley. "I don't know about you, but I'm starving. How about going out to get a quick bite? My treat."

At first, Harley wanted to refuse because she wanted to start her research right away. But then she looked over at Lestrade, reconsidering. She _has_ been working and stressing herself out about this whole ordeal for the last few days. A little break wasn't going to kill her.

She nodded yes, and Lestrade grinned. "Great! I know a place just a few blocks from here that serves excellent chips."

And so after a quick food run, during of which Harley made absolutely sure that there was no music the second she got in the car— "Oh, come on!" Lestrade cried out in mock distress when she promptly switched the radio off— they returned to his office with classic London fish and chips to go. And, because Lestrade was a typical cop, he stopped by a local bakery on the way and bought a bag of pastries for them as well.

"You like it?" Lestrade asked her a few minutes after digging in.

She nodded sincerely as she chewed on her hot, delicious chips. _Oh, my God, these are bloody amazing._

Lestrade chuckled at her dreamy expression. "See? I know what I'm talking about. Sherlock's not the only genius around here."

Harley grinned at that before she proceeded to eat her meal. Once she was finished, she asked Lestrade via her notebook:

 _May I borrow your computer? I want to look up that painting Sherlock mentioned._

"Sure thing," he replied, stuffing the last of his custard-filled bun in his mouth before he got up and set up the computer for her. The first thing she did was go to Google and search, "lost Vermeer painting", and instantly her top results came back as several recent news articles regarding the re-discovered artwork— how it was being unveiled at the Hickman Gallery that very evening, how old it was, and how much it was worth. All of that, Harley already knew from Sherlock's assessment, so instead she moved on from those to a website containing a biography of the painter Johannes Vermeer himself. Artist from the Netherlands. Alive from 1632 to 1675. Mostly painted interior domestic scenes with certain pigments. Fame was obscure in his lifetime until the nineteenth century and since then is considered one of the greatest painters of the Dutch Golden Age.

 _Nothing,_ Harley thought with a frustrated sigh, exiting out of the site and moving on. She continued her search on the lost painting for a long while, trying to find anything that didn't seem right about the newest addition to the gallery, while Lestrade did some work of his own filing the reports back. In the end, she couldn't find anything that she considered essential or helpful in their situation. It almost made her wish she'd have gone with Sherlock to look at the painting herself, as they haven't posted what the painting actually was on any of the websites.

Harley sat back and rubbed her eyes tiredly before she looked out the window. It had gotten dark outside in the time she was doing her research. It must've been hours since she'd gotten word from her uncle. They had to have got wind of something by now.

Thankfully, she didn't have to wait for very long. After about half an hour of busying herself by going over her notes, Lestrade got a call on his mobile.

"Right. She'll be right over," he said before hanging up. He met her curious gaze and explained, "That was your uncle. He and Sherlock are back at Baker Street and asked me drop you off."

Harley smiled in relief before she gathered her things together and left the office with Lestrade. John and Sherlock were all right. They must've found something.

They were on their way back to Baker Street, during of which Lestrade turned the radio back on. "My car, my music," he playfully chided her, to which Harley responded in kind by rolling her eyes as she sat back in her seat and put up with even more of the DI's singing. After a few minutes, though, she looked over at him as he sang along into the second verse of, "Don't let the sun go down on me," by Elton John, and she couldn't help but grin, beginning to enjoy the ridiculousness of it.

By the time the song reached the bridge, not only was Lestrade singing along to it, but Harley was pretending to play the ivory keys of an imaginary piano in front of her, backing him up.

It was strange sight to see from anyone who bothered to look: An aging Detective Inspector and a mute girl playing along to Elton John while driving down the road.

Lestrade laughed as soon as the song was over. "Nice performance there, from both of us," he said heartily, and Harley nodded, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

Then he glanced over her way before focusing back on the road. "You know, I think today was the most I've seen you smile since I met you," he remarked, almost as an afterthought.

She blinked at him, startled.

"Not that there's anything wrong with that," he said. "It's just that with my line of work, and Sherlock's, and your uncle's…sometimes you just gotta loosen up, and have fun once in a while. Otherwise you'll go completely mad."

Harley thought about that as they both fell quiet for the rest of the ride to Baker Street, the radio still playing old classic rock music in the background, and found that in many ways, he was right. Despite all of the craziness that's been going on ever since she arrived in London— from the Black Lotus to the bomber— this was the first time in a long time since she's ever felt so…alive. Visiting John and spending time with him and Sherlock and Lestrade, away from the dysfunctional chaos back home— it was slowly bringing her out of her shell, bit by bit, the good and the bad parts.

She came out of her musings when they finally pulled up to the curb in front of 221B and Lestrade announced, "Here we are."

"I'll see you tomorrow, most likely. Hopefully, we'll have this case solved by then," the DI told her. "Until then, you stay tough, you hear?"

Harley turned to him with an appreciative smile. She was about to open the door to get out, but stopped. Then, before she had the chance to rethink it, she turned back around, leaned toward him, and embraced him in a hug.

For a mere second, Lestrade froze in surprise, but he quickly recovered and hugged her back, chuckling lightly. "Right. You have a good night now," he said after they pulled apart.

She nodded before finally leaving the car. Once she was up the steps and had opened the door, she looked back from the doorway and waved goodbye to the Detective Inspector, smiling, and he waved back before he drove off into the busy streets. She kept her smile even as she stepped into the warm, now familiar flat.

But that all changed the second she closed the door behind her, when her phone vibrated with a text alert. Pulling it out, she saw the word _BLOCKED_ across the screen, and instantly her smile, along with her heart, dropped fast.

 _No. Oh, no._

Feeling her heartbeat begin to quicken, she tentatively opened the message and saw, like the last one, was a message along with a short code.

 **Lord Caesar has been axed. Sir Atbash has taken over.**

 **RG'H LFI ORGGOV HVXIVG**

 **Enjoying ourselves, are we? x**

Harley stared at the screen despairingly for what felt like hours. Why couldn't this psychopath just leave her alone?

Shutting off her phone, she started up the stairs silently. She walked into the living room and found Sherlock sitting in his chair, typing furiously away on his phone and not noticing her at all— which was just fine with her. As for John, from what she could hear, he was in the bathroom, most likely getting ready for bed. That was just as well too.

Glancing at Sherlock one last time, she quietly left the room, leaving him to his own devices, and proceeded upstairs to the confinement of her room, making sure to lock the door. She sat down on the bed before spilling her notebook and pens and pencils out from her backpack. Taking out her phone with one hand, she opened her book with the other to the same page where she deciphered the last code that was sent to her; the words **DON'T TELL ANYONE** still mocking her the more she looked at it. But she quickly shook away the feeling and glared at the message that she recently received. It had to be done.

She only needed to study the message for a short time before it came to her; the hint in the message was rather obvious, and the code was somewhat common and well-known. It made her wonder why he would send something so simple, but that still didn't change the fact she had gotten it from a criminal.

It took a few minutes for her to rewrite the code, and then correspond it with the deciphering method and write the replacement letter underneath. When she was finished, she dropped her pen to the side and stared down at the message, along with the last one above it.

 **IT'S OUR LITTLE SECRET**

She swallowed hard, feeling like she was going get sick. She closed her eyes, taking deep breaths through her mouth to calm herself down. _It's just some jumbled up words,_ she told herself. _Just some stupid words. That's all they are._

The sound of John's heavy footsteps coming up the stairs and head for his bedroom made her snap out of it. Shaking her head, she shut off her phone, closed her notebook, and buried them away in her backpack before changing into her pajamas. Then she left her room, crossed the hallway, and softly knocked on the half-closed door to her uncle's room. Without waiting for a reply, she pushed the door open and went in to see John, already in his nightwear, putting a glass of water on his bedside and in the process of settling in bed.

"Harley," he said, smiling at her. "Made it back in one piece?"

Harley nodded before she walked around the bed and crawled under the covers next to him. Then she noticed John wincing in pain as he shifted over slightly, and she frowned. _I could ask you the same thing._

Upon seeing her concerned look, John cleared his throat, trying to get in a more comfortable position as he told her, "I'm fine. Just got roughed up a bit tonight. We found the Golem…"

Her eyebrows rose when he paused and rubbed the back of his neck uneasily.

"…and then we lost him. He got a good few knocks on me and Sherlock when we confronted him."

 _Oh, good. Discount Frankenstein's monster still out there. That lowers my anxiety greatly,_ she thought sarcastically.

Then Harley listened intently as John went on to explain to her all that happened to him and Sherlock while she was at Scotland Yard. From John seeing Alex Woodbridge's roommate and finding the message on his phone from a Professor Cairns; to questioning Andrew West's fiancée, Lucy, and her brother, Joe; to tracking down the Golem in the rundown area at the Vauxhall Arches first and then at the planetarium.

"Did you know Sherlock has a homeless network?" John said, and Harley shook her head, having no idea what that was. "He pays a bunch of homeless people to gather information when and where he can't do it himself. He calls them his 'eyes and ears all over the city.'"

Harley considered that idea; having a bunch of street people be your personal spies, because no one else would ever suspect them. Hell, people even go out of their way to act like they didn't exist. They were the perfect intel gatherers. _That's…actually very clever,_ she thought, impressed.

"Anyway, we got to the planetarium, but we were too late to save Professor Cairns. We fought with the Golem, and we almost had him, but he got away. Sherlock's still trying to figure out how the painting could be a fake. He wants to go back to the gallery tomorrow morning one last time."

Harley laid back against the bedrest when he finished, hands resting behind her head in deep thought as she went over everything John told her. Alex Woodbridge, security guard at the gallery where the new painting was being unveiled— and also amateur astronomer, according to John— instantly saw something wrong with the painting; got killed by the Golem. Professor Cairns, worked at the planetarium, saw that Woodbridge was right about the painting; got killed as well. They both knew something that they shouldn't have. But what? Harley felt like the answer was staring her right in the face, but she still couldn't quite see it.

"Harley?" John spoke up again, breaking the silence.

Harley turned her head toward him curiously.

"Listen, about…" he started, his face expressing a light mixture of embarrassment and remorse "…about earlier today, before we left the flat…I'm sorry."

Harley stared blankly at him, though she knew exactly what he was talking about: the fight between him and Sherlock, and her bearing witness to it.

"I know it's been hard for you back home, and…well, I didn't mean for you to feel that—"

He was silenced when Harley scooted closer and wrapped her arms around him in a hug, tucking her head underneath his chin, as her way of saying that all was forgiven. She felt him let out a breath in relief before he returned the embrace, holding her close.

"I'm sure Sherlock feels bad about it too," he added.

Harley tilted her head up slightly, shooting him a look, _Really?_ And John chuckled. "Yeah, you're probably right. Maybe deep, deep down in his subconscious, he does, though." He sat back and began to stroke her hair, and she relaxed even more against him. "I forgot…you're due to go back home in a couple of days, aren't you? It's just we've been so busy…"

At her nod of confirmation, he sighed forlornly. "I'm sure going to miss your company when you're gone. And even though Sherlock would never admit it, I think he will too."

Harley closed her eyes and smirked. _Yeah, probably. I think he'll mostly miss having a living person to talk to who won't reply with something he considers idiotic._

"You can always text me or drop me an email— either one of us, actually. When it starts getting bad over there again, let me know, and I'll be there. But it will get better, Harley. I know a lot of people say that, but it does. Trust me, I know. You just got to hang tough and push through it."

 _I hope you're right, Uncle._ Harley thought as she gradually drifted off to sleep. _I really, really do._

The next morning, both Watsons received a literal rude awakening from the consulting detective when he burst through the bedroom door at a quarter to seven.

"Come on, Watsons!" he called over John's incredulous shout of, "Jesus Christ, Sherlock!"

Harley flinched awake, blinking her eyes open in shock.

"No time for lazing about now; we have a case to solve!" Seeing that he'd succeeded in waking both of them up, he left them to get ready.

Harley rubbed her eyes as she sat up, recovering from the scare. _Well, don't I know how this day is going go now._

"That utter…" John grumbled angrily as he dragged himself out of bed, while Harley retreated to her own room, throwing off her pajamas and grabbing her pair of jeans, the first T-Shirt she found— a red and white striped one— and her blue jumper. After struggling to shove her socks and shoes on her feet in her still groggy state, she went down into the kitchen and went straight to making coffee. She yawned and wiped some sleep out of her eyes as she prepared a thermos to go.

"There's no time for coffee!" Sherlock insisted, coming in from the living room as he swung his coat on. "The game is on, Har—"

That was when Harley whipped her head around to face him, her hazy expression morphed into a razor sharp death stare. _Not until I get my coffee fix, it's not._

Sherlock growled, but reluctantly relented. "Hurry up, then!" he snapped before stomping off.

Harley rolled her eyes and went back to her coffee brewing, unperturbed by his harshness. _Baby._

Finally, after transferring the freshly made coffee into her thermos, she and John were all but pushed through the flat and thrown out into the streets by Sherlock. One cab flag-down later, they were on their way to the gallery.

"Still no call from our bomber," Sherlock muttered, staring at the pink phone in his hand. "But we have to assume that by now our time is running out, given how close we were to catching the Golem last night."

"I'm sure even the bomber needs sleep," John murmured under his breath, still not fully awake.

Harley took a long drink of her coffee before offering it over to John, who took it graciously. "Oh, you're an angel," he breathed before taking a few good sips himself.

A while later, they arrived at Hickman's Gallery, where Lestrade was already waiting outside for them. They met up and went inside. The gallery itself was closed to the public during the early morning hours, but Sherlock had phoned Lestrade earlier and had them gain entrance by contacting the curator. That was why other than the detectives, John, and Harley, it was completely void of attendants when they entered the building. Soon, they were in a large but well-lit room that only had one framed painting carefully set up on the far wall: the lost Vermeer painting.

Harley walked up to it, studying it closely. It was an oil-on-canvas of the Delft skyline at nighttime, painted sometime between 1648 and 1649— or so the sign next to it said it was. It certainly was a beautiful work of art. It was quite a shame that it wasn't a real Vermeer painting. She had to admit, though, the brushstrokes and use of pigments do resemble some of the artist's other works very accurately, going by what she came across in her research the night before. Whoever did this one had undoubtedly done their homework.

The clacking of high-heeled footsteps echoing across the room and getting closer caused Harley to turn around. A tall, pale, thin woman with styled short, brown hair and wearing a posh black dress walked briskly up to them. Her face was tight with an annoyed frown, irritated to be called in early on short notice.

"Detective Inspector," she addressed Lestrade with a thick Eastern European accent— Harley guessed Czech— and when Lestrade nodded to confirm, she said crossly, "This had better be important." Then she turned to Sherlock, who was busily typing on is phone, and sneered with recognition. "And you, you have some nerve coming back here."

Harley raised an eyebrow at the woman's hostility toward the consulting detective. _Geez, what did you do, Sherlock?_

Sherlock, of course, was unfazed, instead saying without looking at her, "It's a fake. It _has_ to be."

"Not this again!" the woman exclaimed indignantly. "That painting has been subjected to every test known to science!"

"Then it's a _very_ good fake," Sherlock retorted, his patience dissipated. He spun to face her with a glare. "You know about this, don't you, Miss Wenceslas? This is you, isn't it?"

She scoffed in exasperation and turned to Lestrade. "Inspector, my time is being wasted. Would you mind showing you and your… _friends_ out?" She sent another withering scowl toward Sherlock.

Then Harley flinched when the old telephone ringtone blared out from Sherlock's pocket. For the first time since the start of this puzzle, the bomber was finally contacting them through the pink phone. Harley braced herself for whatever might come next as she watched Sherlock hit speaker and held it up.

"The painting is a fake," he said barely a second after answering. "It's a fake. That's why Woodbridge and Cairns were killed."

The other end was silent, save for what Harley could gather was faint but heavy breathing. That verified that the bomber had another hostage, but wasn't letting them speak. Why, though?

"Oh, come on, proving it's just the detail. The painting is a fake. I've solved it, I figured it out!" Sherlock insisted, his voice raised impatiently.

Still no reply from the hostage.

Realizing that he wasn't getting anywhere, Sherlock straightened, taking a deep breath as he recomposed himself. "Okay, I'll prove it," he said calmly. "Give me time. Will you give me time?"

Nothing prepared Harley— or any of them— for what came next.

 _"_ _Ten…"_ the voice of a very frightened little boy, possibly younger than Harley, spoke through the phone.

 _Holy shit,_ Harley thought, staring at the phone in horror.

"It's a kid. Oh, God, it's a kid!" Lestrade whispered in shock as Sherlock whirled around and stared closely at the painting.

"What did he say?" John asked.

"Ten," Sherlock replied shortly just as the boy said, _"Nine…"_ His face was tense; his eyes flickered over every inch of the painting, trying to find something, _anything_ that told him it was a fake. "It's a countdown. He's giving me time."

"Jesus!" Lestrade breathed, frantically running a hand though his hair.

"The painting's a fake, but how can I prove it? How?!" Sherlock growled in frustration.

 _"_ _Eight…"_

He rounded onto Miss Wenceslas. "This kid will die! Tell me why the painting is fake! Tell me!" he demanded the woman, whose scowl was long gone, replaced with proper fear. She opened her mouth to answer, but Sherlock suddenly waved her off.

 _"_ _Seven…"_ the boy continued.

"No, shut up! Don't say anything. It only works if _I_ figure it out." He went back to the painting.

Unable to stand the suspense, John turned and waked away a few paces, while Lestrade and Harley simply watched Sherlock with equal looks of worry on their faces.

 _"_ _Six…"_

 _Come on, Sherlock. Hurry up!_ Harley mentally prodded, her gaze moving from him to the painting desperately, her heart pounding in her chest.

"Woodbridge knew, but how?" Sherlock muttered.

 _"_ _Five…"_

"It's speeding up!" Lestrade warned him.

"Sherlock," John pressed.

Sherlock glared at the painting, specifically the skyline, until his mouth fell open and his eyes widened. "Oh!"

 _"_ _Four…"_

"In the planetarium! You heard it too, John!" Sherlock exclaimed with a grin. "Oh, that is brilliant! That is gorgeous!" He turned and shoved the pink phone into the hands of an unsuspecting Harley before walking away and taking out his own mobile.

 _"_ _Three…"_

Harley glanced down at the phone anxiously before looking to the painting. What did Sherlock find? Something from the planetarium? Her eyes hastily roamed over the starry sky.

"What's brilliant? What is?" John asked as Sherlock rapidly typed into his phone, then walked back toward them.

"Oh, this is beautiful! Love this!" Sherlock laughed with delight.

 _"_ _Two…"_

Harley turned back to him with an urgent glare. _Come ON!_

"Sherlock!" Lestrade yelled furiously.

When Sherlock reached Harley, he swiped the phone from her and shouted into it, "The Van Buren Supernova!"

Time seemed to stop momentarily as the room went deathly silent.

 _"_ _Please, is somebody there?"_ the boy's trembling voice came through. _"Somebody help me!"_

Nearly everyone let out collective, heavy breaths as Sherlock turned to Lestrade, giving him the phone. "There you go. Go find out where he is and pick him up," he ordered. While Lestrade walked away and began talking softly to the boy, Sherlock turned to John and Harley with a brief, but sure look that assured them, _he's going to be fine,_ before he turned his attention back to the painting, pointing to one of the white dots in the sky. "The Van Buren Supernova, so-called," he explained before he held up his phone which showed a picture of said supernova. "Exploding star— only appeared in the sky in 1858."

John and Harley stepped closer to the painting when Sherlock walked away. "So how could it have been painted in the…" John said, checking the sign next to it, "…1640s." He turned to his niece and grinned with relief, glad that Sherlock was able to solve it in time. Harley couldn't help but smile slightly too, though she was still trying to get her heartrate back to a steady pace. That was insane, but all that aside, it truly was clever.

Then they both jumped when John's phone bleeped with a message. He dug it out, look at it, and then frowned. Harley looked over his shoulder and saw why: it was from Mycroft.

 **My patience is wearing thin.**

 **Mycroft Holmes**

Shaking his head, he switched his phone off and put it away. He exhaled heavily, still coming down from the rush of the scare. "Come on, let's go," he told Harley as he took her hand and started to lead her out. Harley obediently followed, grasping his hand tight. She looked back over her shoulder only once, and saw Miss Wenceslas stare at the painting in wide-eyed shock. Harley looked away and sighed. That was way too close for comfort. That poor kid must've been scared to death.

 _But at least no one died this time,_ she thought, remembering the old woman.

They won this round. And that was all that mattered.

But Harley knew that it wasn't over, not in the slightest. And that something even more sinister and dangerous was yet to come— just lingering in the shadows along the horizon, and was coming for them. All of them.

* * *

 _ **HL KZGRVMGOB SV DZGXSVH SRH KZDMH**_

 _ **NZPRMT GSVN WZMXV UILN WFHP GL WZDM**_

 _ **.**_

 _ **GSV HROVMG XSROW ZXGH LS HL XOVEVI**_

 _ **YFG HSV XZM'G SRWV SVI UVZIH ULIVEVI**_

* * *

 **A/N- Me: "Hey. Hey, Harley. Harley...Harley...Harley...*takes deep breath* HARLEYYYYYYYYY!"**

 **Harley: _WHAT?!_**

 **Me: "...Danger Zone!"**

 **Maaannn, I gotta stop making comparisons between my dad and Lestrade. My dad always keeps his car radio on a classic rock/pop station, and Kenny Loggins and Elton John are _immensely_ popular on there (I won't even get started on Pearl Jam and that one song by Kansas that all the Supernatural fans are obsessed with). Of course, Dad always insists on singing along to every song that comes on. It can be a little embarrassing sometimes, but hey, he's my dad. It's what I love about him, and considering how much he works to provide, he deserves to go all out and have some silly fun when he feels like it.**

 **And I'll be damned if I don't give Papa Lestrade and Harley some bonding time.**

 **We're getting _pretttyyy_ close to the end of _T_ _he Great Game_ , guys! Excited?**

 **"D-D-D-Danger lurks behind you! There's a stranger out to find you! What to do? Just grab on to some Duck...err, SHERLOCK! WOO-OO!"**


	34. End Game

**A/N- Hello, my rich dark chocolate chips!**

 ***lets out a long, collective sigh* Got this chapter done before my schedule was going be too occupied with school starting back up. Now, if I could just do the same for the next chapter...**

 **Disclaimer: I only own my OC.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

Apparently, according to the text recently sent to John, even the all-knowing instigator behind the British nation's security that was known as Mycroft Holmes had his limits. _'My patience is wearing thin?' Seriously? Who texts like that? Who even TALKS like that?_ Harley thought. It was like he was _trying_ to come across as a Disney villain. So, while Sherlock stayed behind with Lestrade to talk with the gallery curator Miss Wenceslas, John took Harley with him to the railroads at Battersea, where Andrew West's body was discovered.

Harley, donning a bright orange safety vest that matched her uncle's— as mandated by all who frequented the railways— watched a freight train roar by in the distance as she walked alongside John and a tube guard in charge of the area— a burly, balding man in a dirty, weathered uniform.

"So this is where West was found?" John asked him while writing in his pocket notebook, turning Harley's attention back to them.

"Yeah. Are you gonna be long?"

"Might be."

"Are you with the police?" the tube guard asked before glancing at Harley with a searching look.

"Um…sort of," John replied vaguely.

"I hate 'em," the guard said suddenly.

Both Watsons looked at him in confusion.

"What, the police?" John asked.

"No, jumpers."

Harley's hand instinctively reached for the jumper she was wearing, feeling offended, but then the man explained himself, "You know, people who chuck themselves in front of the trains." Then he muttered under his breath, but Harley could still hear him, "Selfish bastards."

Harley stared blankly at him. _Wow. Just wow._

"Well, that's…one way of looking at it," John said uncomfortably, eyes flickering between him and Harley.

"I mean it," the tube guard went on, oblivious to their uneasiness. "It's all right for _them_ — over in a split second and they're gone. Leave strawberry jam all over the lines! What about the drivers who got to deal with it, eh?"

Harley turned away with a look of disdain. _Please don't give me a reason to hate my favorite flavor of jam._

John, noticing Harley's expression, interrupted the tube guard before he could say anything else. "Um, speaking of, there's no blood on the line," he said before crouching down to inspect the railway line. "Has it been cleaned off?"

"There wasn't that much," the guard answered with a shrug.

"You said his head was smashed in." John rose back up.

"Yeah, but there wasn't much blood," he repeated.

John sighed, feeling like he was getting nowhere with this man. "Okay, then. Thanks anyway," he said a moment later.

The tube guard nodded. "I'll leave you lot to it then. Give a shout when you're off." And with that, he turned and started to walk off, leaving the two of them alone by the railroad.

John shook his head before saying to Harley once the guard was out of earshot, "Good to finally be rid of him, eh?"

Harley couldn't agree more. Then, checking to make sure that the area was clear, she hopped onto one of the tracks. She held her arms out to balance herself as she walked along the narrow strip of metal, with John strolling casually beside her on solid ground. John gazed out at a nearby, detached train car and smiled. "This place kind of reminds me of that night when we were out looking for those markings— the codes in graffiti."

Harley's lips twitched upwards, reminiscing along with him; riding piggyback in the dark, searching for the hidden ciphers along the tracks. That felt like so long ago, when in reality, it was only about a week ago.

"The case of the Blind Banker," John said wistfully.

Harley smirked at him, still amused by the choice of title, and Sherlock's comment regarding it.

"Oh, speaking of which," John said suddenly. "You remember Sarah?"

At Harley's immediate answer in the form of a dismissive headshake, he glared at her. "Yes, you do! You met her last week on that case. And if you were wondering, young lady, yes, I'm still seeing her."

Harley rolled her eyes. _Right, the other female tag-along._

"Then I guess you don't remember me telling you that she and I were planning on doing something together— all three of us."

Harley froze in mid-step. That, she remembered. _Oh, God, no._

"I told her that you'll be heading home soon, so she'd like you come visit for dinner."

The way Harley was currently looking at him, it was as though he'd told her that she was going to be thrown into a pit of fire ants instead— a look that John took no enjoyment out of.

"I told you, Harley, it'll be good for you," he told her sternly. "Remember what your counselor told you? You need more social interaction with people other than family."

Harley frowned bitterly down at the track in front of her at the reminder.

John sighed. "Look, she just wants to get to know you better, okay?" he said softly. "That alone gives me a good feeling about this one."

Harley slowly lifted her head and met his careful gaze. "So will you at least try— for me?"

She looked away and bit her lip, before nodding feebly in defeat, knowing there wasn't a way out of it when John was this serious about something, or someone.

"Okay, so…" John said, returning his focus to the tracks. "Andrew West got on a train somewhere…or did he?" He looked at Harley, mostly thinking aloud to himself at this point. "There was no ticket on him. So how did he end up here, I wonder?"

 _Good question,_ Harley mused.

Then, right in front of her, one of the movable tracks automatically shifted over to curve into another track and latched into it with clang, changing the direction. John squatted down once more to examine it more thoroughly, while Harley stepped off the tracks while in deep thought. _Of course, the tracks can change, depending on the train's intended destination. So could West's death have something to do with the—_

"Points."

Harley flinched at the sound of the deep voice before she turned to the sight of Sherlock standing not far behind them, hands behind his back.

"Yes!" John exclaimed at the same time as he sprung to his feet and faced the consulting detective as well.

"Knew you'd get there eventually," Sherlock said with a smirk. "West wasn't killed here. That's why there was so little blood."

"And how long have you been following us?" John asked with a hint of exasperation.

"Since the start. You don't think I would give up a case like this just to spite my brother, do you?"

Harley looked up contemplatively, a hand to her chin. _Well, you say that…_

"Shut up, Harley," Sherlock said.

"Oi!" John chided, but Sherlock and Harley exchanged humorous smiles. _He really is learning,_ she thought fondly.

"Come on," Sherlock told them as he turned around and began walking back the way he came. "We've got a bit of burglary to do."

John and Harley looked at each other before going to catch up with Sherlock, both not entirely understanding what he'd said about burglary but complying nonetheless. Either way, the outcome was bound to be interesting and, hopefully, put this case to rest.

Not long afterward, the three of them found themselves walking down the street of a neighborhood near the tracks, Sherlock leading the way. He still hadn't told them what exactly they were doing.

"The missile plans haven't left the country— never did. Otherwise, Mycroft's people would've heard about it," Sherlock said. "Despite what people think, we do still have a Secret Service."

"Yeah, I know. I've met them," John said, implying his business with Mycroft and even his time in service.

 _Not much of a secret, though, if everyone knows about them,_ Harley thought.

"Which means that whoever stole the memory stick either can't sell it, or doesn't know what to do with it. My money's on the latter," Sherlock explained before saying, "We're here."

"What? Where?" John asked, but Sherlock had turned right into the drive of a small brick flat complex. The Watsons followed Sherlock up a set of stairs leading to, according to the sign, flat 21A.

"Sherlock!" John hissed urgently as the detective rummaged through his pockets. "What if there's someone in?"

"There isn't," Sherlock assured him as he picked the lock for a few seconds until the door opened with a click.

Feeling nervous at the thought of breaking into someone's flat, Harley glanced outside, making sure no one was watching them, before hurrying into the flat after him. They went up a short flight of stairs before finding themselves in someone's living room.

"Where are we?" John asked in a low voice, despite Sherlock saying that nobody was home.

"Oh, sorry, didn't I say? Joe Harrison's flat," Sherlock answered.

That didn't ring any bells with Harley, or with John, going by his reaction. "Joe?" he said questioningly.

"Brother of West's fiancée. He stole the memory stick and killed his prospective brother-in-law," Sherlock elaborated as he pulled the curtain back, looking out one of the windows. Then he grinned. Harley went up next to him and looked out as well, seeing what the matter was, while John continued to look around the room. Just outside the window was an extension roof from the floor below that protracted out just before touching an old, vine-covered wall across the way. And right over that wall was the railway line, where a train currently flew by.

"How convenient to have such quick access from the window to the tracks, especially if a train just so happened to be stopped at that point," Sherlock told her, his smile widening, before he lowered himself to his knees and took out his pocket magnifier. Harley leaned down to his level as he slowly ran his magnifying glass across the window sill, the lens revealing several tiny red spots contrasting to the whiteness of the sill. Blood specks.

 _Oh…_ Harley studied the specks before she shifted her gaze out the window, gathering the evidence together in her mind, along with Sherlock's previous statement, and eventually coming to her own conclusion. _I think I see._ A small smile grew from her lips. She met Sherlock's eyes and, smiling back, he nodded wordlessly.

Then John came up behind then, looking over Sherlock's shoulder at the blood on the sill. "But why did he do it?" he asked Sherlock.

Just as Sherlock and Harley rose to their full height, the sound of the front door being unlocked carried up to them, followed by the door opening, then someone entering the flat.

"Why don't we ask him," Sherlock said lowly.

Harley felt her heartbeat quicken as she watched John put a hand to his back pocket— no doubt where his gun was— and slowly approach the doorway. Then she lightly flinched when Sherlock took hold of her arm and gently pulled her back as he stepped in front of her. "Stay right here," he whispered to her, positioning himself so that she was out of view of the doorway, arm keeping her back, as a second line of defense in case things got out of hand.

But that wasn't necessary, considering how capable her uncle was. She snuck a peek around Sherlock in time to see John take a step out of the room and whip his gun out in a flash, aiming it at the intruder. "Don't!" he said, his tone firm, clear, and sharp— a tone that reminded Harley why she should never get on his bad side. "Don't."

There was a heavy silence before a scuffling sound was heard from the stairs. John cautiously lowered his gun and stepped to the side, making way for a tall, thin man with short yet curly brown hair and wearing a red and dark grey bicycle courier outfit: Joe Harrison. His expression was nothing short of immense distress, knowing he'd been caught, and it didn't waver even as Sherlock and John had him sit on the couch, his face beginning to bead with sweat. Sherlock kept his place firmly between the windows with Harley behind him while John stood by the door, both men blocking any chances of the suspect attempting to escape. However, it seemed Joe was too overcome with fear and guilt to even consider running away as he sat there.

"It wasn't meant to…" he finally spoke up, his voice broken. "God, what's Lucy gonna say? Oh, Jesus." He sunk further into the couch, burying his face in his hands.

"Why did you kill Andrew?" John interrogated.

"It was an accident," Joe answered.

Sherlock snorted in disbelief, prompting the man to go on the defense. "I swear it was!" he insisted.

Sherlock glared at him, showing no sympathy whatsoever, causing Joe to shrink back. "But stealing the missile defense program _wasn't_ an accident, was it, Mr. Harrison?" he said icily. "So why did you do it?"

Letting out a shuddering breath, Joe began his story, beginning with telling them how he started dealing drugs, using the bike courier job as a cover-up. But soon he'd gotten in over his head, owing people thousands of pounds. Then, while at a bar celebrating West's engagement, the man let slip of the secret missile plans after getting drunk— even going as far as to show off the memory stick. Thinking that he could make some good money off of it, Joe managed to easily swipe the stick from a plastered West. However, the next time they saw each other, West knew he had stolen it and confronted him. Joe had tried to deny it, but West didn't believe him.

"What happened?" John asked him, even though they all could gather the answer to that themselves. Joe told them that they'd gotten rough with each other on the top of the stairwell outside, and Joe had pushed West hard enough for him to lose his footing and fall backwards, tumbling down the stairs— the fall no doubt bashing his head and killing him instantly.

"I was gonna call an ambulance, but it was too late," Joe said. "I didn't know what to do. So I dragged him in here, and I just sat in the dark…thinking."

"When a neat little idea popped into your head," Sherlock said. He stepped back and turned slightly, pulling the curtain back again as he stared out the window. "You saw that a train had pulled up in front of your flat. So you dragged Andrew West's body out the window…" he pointed out the blood marks on the sill before raising his hand up to the tracks, "…pulled him across the roof, over the wall, and left him on the roof of the train, carrying him way away from here. He would've gone on for ages if the train hadn't met a stretch of track that curved."

"And points," John added.

"Exactly," Sherlock confirmed. They turned their attention back to Joe.

"Do you still have it then? The memory stick?" John asked.

At Joe's nod, Sherlock said, "Fetch it for me, if you wouldn't mind."

Joe's lips quivered as he sat there for a moment, until he stood up in defeat and walked miserably into another room to get the memory stick. Harley sighed, glad that was over with. Then Sherlock walked across the room to John. He spoke softly, but Harley could still hear their conversation. "Distraction over, the game continues."

"But maybe that's over too," John said hopefully. "We've heard nothing from the bomber since the gallery."

"Five pips, remember, John?" Sherlock countered, staring ahead in thought. "It's a countdown…and we've only had four."

Harley tried not to think about that as she came up and joined John by his side, taking his hand. She did, however, hope that whoever the bomber would choose as his next hostage, that they'd be able to solve the next puzzle before anything else could happen. In the meantime, though, she would stay with her uncle, and the consulting detective.

* * *

After the encounter in Joe Harrison's flat, the trio had returned to Baker Street safely in the early evening. However, very shortly after arriving, Sherlock briefly parted ways with the Watsons so that he would deliver the memory stick safely back to Mycroft. John and Harley spent that time to themselves settling back in the flat, though they still wore their coats and jackets, as it was still rather cold from the boarded windows.

They weren't alone for that long before Sherlock came back. Harley noted that he took an impressingly short time to hand over a memory stick of national security, but she disregarded it, believing that the brothers simply didn't do pleasantries, let alone business, with each other for very long.

Sherlock came into the kitchen to find Harley sitting at the dining table, putting her notebook and pencil case together in her backpack. John, meanwhile, was in the bathroom washing up.

"Getting ready for your evening outing, I see," Sherlock stated, "with your uncle and…Sarah, is it?"

Harley simply shrugged. _Who cares? It's just going to be different later._

He chuckled at her apathetic manner. "I do not envy you."

She looked at him drily. _Yeah, thanks very much._

Then Sherlock's brow's wrinkled, pondering. His eyes flickered to the hallway, making sure John was still busy in the bathroom, before turning his gaze back to Harley. "I believe you mentioned some time ago about their relationship lasting at least a month."

 _I did write that, didn't I?_ she thought, nodding.

At this, Sherlock grew a rather mischievous smirk. "How much are you willing to bet on that if I say they break it off in less than that?"

Harley stopped what she was doing before she slowly turned to face the detective with a hard, challenging look. Then she swiftly dug into her backpack, pulling out all that was left of her holiday money— a little over seventeen pounds.

"Oh, going all in, I see," Sherlock observed when she showed him. "You're that confident aren't you?"

She narrowed her eyes at his arrogance before scribbling down her terms on paper:

 _I win if the relationship ends in one month, and Sarah is the one to break it off._

"And I win if _John_ breaks it off in less than a month," Sherlock said. He stared at her pensively for a long moment, before he smirked once more, only it wasn't devious this time, more gentle. "I can text you the results when you go back home…along with other details. You do have my number after all."

Harley blinked, briefly taken aback by the statement, and the implication behind it. Then her lips slowly curled up into a smile before writing down:

 _And no cheating. As in no interfering and trying to break them up prematurely. They have to do it themselves. I'll know; John tells me everything._

Sherlock laughed. "Oh, I don't doubt that. So…do we have a bet, Harley Watson?" He held a hand out to her.

Harley shook his hand, her smile turning soft, more out of gratitude. Perhaps going back wouldn't turn out to be so bad after all— not when she still had a glimpse into the world she had quickly become acquainted to here in London.

Not long after their little deal-making, all three of them were in the living room together. John was typing away on his laptop— most likely writing a post on his blog— doing some quick updating before he and Harley left for Sarah's. Sherlock sat in his chair, his knees up to his chest and his arms folded tightly over his chest, trying to conserve heat. The pink phone lay on the left arm of his chair, but it was temporarily forgotten as Sherlock turned the television on, showing what looked like a Jerry Springer/Maury type of reality show. Harley found those kinds of shows to be distasteful, what with all the shouting and everyone acting like total idiots in general, but all the same, since that was what was playing at the moment, she found herself watching it as she waited for her uncle to finish up with his blogging. Wearing her backpack, she absently moved to get a better view, sitting on the right arm of Sherlock's chair, both of them engrossed with the current episode covering people doing DNA tests on children born out of wedlock.

"No, no, NOOO!" Sherlock shouted indignantly while the audience booed at the recent results. "Of course he's not the boy's father! Look at the turn-ups on his jeans!"

"Knew it was a bad idea," John muttered from the desk, but Sherlock heard it, and he hummed questioningly, in which the army doctor replied, "Getting you into crap telly."

"Hmm, not a patch on Connie Prince, though."

Harley scoffed before she looked over at the two of them and smiled. _I'm definitely going to miss this._

"So you gave Mycroft the memory stick, then?" John asked, changing the subject.

"Yep," Sherlock replied. "He was over the moon— threatened me with a knighthood…again."

Harley turned to him with an incredulous look at the mention of a knighthood. _Threatened?! Again?!_

Sherlock noticed her expression and smirked. "Trust me, _Lady Harleen_ , it's not all that's cracked up to be. Hardly any dragon-slaying," he said, recalling the conversation about her playing knights when she was younger.

She looked away when she felt her cheeks heating up in embarrassment from the mention of her old nickname.

"You know, I'm still waiting," John said.

"Hmm? For what?" Sherlock asked.

"For you to admit that a little knowledge of the solar system and you'd have cleared up the fake painting a lot quicker."

"Didn't do _you_ any good, did it?"

"No, but then again, I'm not the world's only consulting detective," John quipped back smugly.

Sherlock smirked again, more out of pride this time. "True."

Harley watched their exchange of words with a small smile. It was refreshing to see that the subject of their arguing from a few days ago had turned into mere bantering. She wished that it would stay that way. After all, it wouldn't do well for Sherlock and her uncle to have a falling out. She liked it here at Baker Street. She wanted to keep visiting every chance she could take.

Then John closed the lid of his laptop and stood up. "Well, we won't be in for tea; we're going to Sarah's. Come on, Harley," he said.

At first, Harley stayed where she was as she sent Sherlock a pleading look. _Help me._ But when she was only met with a deep chuckle, she reluctantly stood from her spot with a resigned sigh and started to follow her uncle out.

"There's some risotto left in the fridge," John called over his shoulder as they headed for the door.

Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement.

"Um— milk. We need milk."

"I'll get some."

Both Watsons turned back with looks of surprise on their faces. "Really?" John asked skeptically.

"Really."

John thought for a moment before adding, "And some beans, then?"

"Sure," Sherlock replied, not taking his eyes off the television screen.

"Okay, then." With a nod, John took Harley's hand, and together they descended the stairs and stepped outside into the evening London air.

"You know, he's probably not going to get the milk and beans," John said as they started to walk down the sidewalk. "Then again, that wouldn't surprise me, either." He shook his head and smiled down at Harley. "Well, in any case, I think we'll have a good time over at Sarah's. She was wondering if you could help her cook dinner for us; that'll be good for both of you."

Harley made no response to that, but in her mind, she figured that since there was no way out of this, she supposed that she might as well make the best of the situation. She hoped that whatever type of dish they were going to cook together, it would be something Italian.

She never got the chance to figure that out.

It all happened so fast— too fast for Harley to fully comprehend what was going on. One second, she and her uncle were unconcernedly walking down the empty street, minding their own business.

Until she heard the sound of a vehicle coming up from behind them. At first, she didn't give it a second thought. But then that was followed by quick, hurried footsteps. Before Harley could even think to turn around, two giant, heavy hands snaked around her, latching roughly over her mouth and around her waist, and yanked her backward off the ground, her hand ripping out of her uncle's.

There was no time to think at all, or even to try to fight back as she was dragged away; only to feel the rush of adrenaline coursing through her veins as her brain went from shocked to raw, excruciating panic in an instant. And it only worsened when she vaguely heard John's yelling and cursing in the background as he too struggled against the unknown attackers.

Then Harley felt a stinging pinch in the left side of her neck, and she hissed in pain. She instinctively tried to raise her hand to her neck in hopes of swiping away whatever was causing it, but her arm just felt too heavy to lift. In fact, her whole body suddenly felt like it weighed a thousand pounds in her kidnapper's hold. Her vision blurred as she felt weaker and weaker by the second. She had just enough cognizance left to register that she was being loaded into what looked like the back of a van, followed closely by John. She was unceremoniously dropped to the floor of the van, but she was too weak to even move at this point, her eyelids becoming too heavy to open.

The last thing she saw was her uncle looking at her with terror in his eyes— a look she's never seen on his face before— before everything went black as her eyes finally closed shut.

* * *

Her head was aching, her thoughts fuzzy and clouded. Her mouth was dry. There was a painful pressure digging into her wrists. The rest of her body felt numb and heavy.

All these signals seeped sluggishly into Harley's brain the minute she started to regain consciousness. She blinked several times, trying to wake herself up. With effort, she lifted her head from her chest, fighting off the wave of nausea that made her swallow hard. She was in a poorly lit room— that much she could tell from her still blurry vision. Through her shallow and ragged breaths, the smell of a strong chemical wafted into her lungs, causing her to cough. She tried to move, but found that she couldn't. Looking down, she slowly realized that she was sitting in an uncomfortable chair, her hands bound behind her.

What was going on? She shook her head, hoping to clear it, as she tried to remember what happened. She was walking outside with John, heading for Sarah's, and then…she was taken. They must've given her something to knock her out. And John too, probably.

 _John…where's John?_

She raised her head again, hoping to find her uncle somewhere in the room as well. Blinking her eyes into focus, she looked around the room…

…and was startled to see someone else in the room with her, leaning against the wall casually in the dark.

"Op, there she is," came a man's voice, soft and serene, with a light air of playfulness, "finally up and ready to play with the big boys."

The man removed himself from the wall and stepped toward her. He came into the light, and Harley could clearly see him— tall, with slicked back black hair, dark brown eyes, and the barest hint of a stubble around his mouth and chin. He wore an obviously expensive suit; crisp, clean, dark, with no dust or lint on it.

Harley's blood ran cold as she gazed up at the man. He may be dressed differently and have more of an Irish lilt to his voice, but there was no mistaking those dark eyes and that friendly smile, except now she could see the danger that lurked behind them.

Jim. Jim from I.T. at St. Bart's.

"You recognize me," he said as he approached her. "You do, don't you? I can tell that you do. How very sweet. Then again…I suppose I should've known you would. After all, you see a lot of things..." he stopped mere inches from her and leaned down until they were eye-to-eye with each other, "…and you keep quiet about them. Don't you, Harley?"

He chuckled when she merely sat there, staring at him, as though tickled by the fact that she couldn't answer him.

"I'm Jim. Jim Moriarty. So nice to see you again," he introduced himself before he straightened back up. "You see, I'm a bit of a specialist, much like dear Uncle Sherlock. There's just one teensy little difference: while he's the one who puts out fires…" at this, as though to add dramatic effect, his expression darkened yet somehow kept his gleeful smile, "…I'm the one who starts them."

Harley's breath caught in her throat at the mention of his last name, recalling brief words in passing throughout her stay at Baker Street— from Sherlock as well as from John. The name that was behind the sponsoring of the killer cab driver. The one who had all of those people strapped to bombs to make Sherlock solve his puzzles. The one who had to stay above it all, as Sherlock put it— organizing plans to make people's crimes go away.

The one pulling all the strings.

Harley watched as Jim began to circle around her as if going for a leisurely stroll in the park, fear causing her heart to quicken. She was literally shaking in her shoes while he spoke.

"You see, I've been aware of Sherlock and his little hobby as a detective for quite some time, now. I was impressed by his skills— _very_ impressed. Even followed his website. You've seen it, right, Harley…seen all of my little messages in code that I sent him?"

He was behind her when he said that last part, but she could just _feel_ his wicked grin radiating onto her back, making her skin crawl.

"You could say— well, you can't, can you?— you could _think_ that I'm his number one fan. He's not like the ordinary people. After all, he's the one who came the closest to me. We're just alike, me and him."

Then Harley flinched back when he suddenly swirled around the chair to stand in front of her and lean down again. Only this time, his playful façade had completely disappeared, his face contorted into a vengeful, malicious expression that frightened her to her very core. "…And then he went and got himself a couple of _pets_ ," he snarled, his voice dripping with poison. "Then he started to get _boring_."

He held her gaze with that monstrous face for what felt like forever. Her heart was pounding so loudly she feared that it would burst right out of her chest. Finally, slowly, he backed off and turned his back on her. He walked away for only a couple of steps and stopped, keeping his back turned to her. His body was slightly hunched over.

"So I sold out several of my clients— cut loose all those people— just to get him to come back out and play my game…the Great Game, as I've come to call it." His shoulders shook as he chuckled. "And oh, was it worth it. I enjoyed it ever so much, watching him play, watching him dance."

Harley felt like she was going to throw up, not wanting to believe how sick and twisted this man before her was.

But then he turned his head and looked back at her from over his shoulder, his lips curled into a vindictive smirk. "Enjoyed it just as much as I enjoyed toying with you… _again_."

Harley froze, feeling like someone had just given her an electric shock. _What?_

He took several more steps away from her as he said, "You know, I don't usually keep tabs on the smaller cases I worked on over the years— the tiny, mundane little problems that tiny, mundane little people want me to solve for them to make them sleep better at night." He reached out into the dark and took something in his hands. "The first time I saw you with Sherlock, though, I couldn't help but feel you looked familiar. So I did a little bit of digging, and it all came back to me."

He turned around, and Harley's eyes widened at what he was holding. A notebook. But not just any notebook. It was the one she had brought with her to London. The one she had dropped and lost while she was on the Blind Banker case with Sherlock and John.

How did he get a hold of it?

He licked his fingers before flipping through the several pages of her book— every conversation she had, every note and scribble— tisking as he did so. "You're a real piece of work, you know that?" He smiled again. "But what a coincidence that you're related to the flatmate of the world's only consulting detective. Talk about a small world."

Harley's lower lip trembled, trying to comprehend what he was talking about…and why it was making her feel nothing but anguish.

Jim gave her a look that a parent would a child when they disappointed him. "Oh, wee lamb, you're still trying to understand, aren't you? I've been trying that all week— sending you all of those little texts." Then he snapped the notebook shut, making her wince, and he tossed it behind him like it was rubbish. "But I guess I'll have to try other means to… _jog your memory."_

He slowly advanced toward her once again. "And I think I have an idea, going by what General Shan told me before I had her wall decorated with her brains."

Harley's stomach dropped, remembering her incident back when she was kidnapped by the Black Lotus. If he was thinking was she thought he was thinking, then… _no._

He stopped directly in front of her, and she stiffened. He allowed a tense silence to fall between them for a moment.

Then he swiftly kicked the chair over.

Harley, along with the chair, fell back with huge crash. The back of her head slammed against the tiled floor so hard she saw stars for a millisecond, before there was the sickening crack of her fingers being crushed under the weight of her and the chair. She gasped, tears instantly springing into her eyes in white hot, agonizing pain.

Through the stinging tears and bright dots appearing in her vision, she could barely make out Jim's form standing right next to her head, calmly fixing his tie as he stared down at her.

"Oh, shh, shh, shh," he gently shushed her over her now quick and panicked wheezes. "Don't worry, sweetie. I'm not going to kill you…" then he glimpsed over at something that Harley couldn't see, "hmm…but he might. After all, I don't like to get my hands _too_ dirty these days. Have fun, you two."

He stepped out of her view, only to be replaced by someone else. A larger man, wearing nothing but black and had his face covered by a dark mask. His menacing form closed in on her as her breath became rapid to the point where she was very nearly suffocating herself.

Then darkness consumed her.

* * *

 ** _GSV TZNV RH LEVI, R SZEV DLM_**

 ** _MLD RG'H GRNV GL SZEV HLNV UFM_**

 ** _._**

 ** _SLD R OLEV WVHGILBRMT OREVH_**

 ** _MLD OVG'H HVV RU GSV NFGV HFIEREVH_**


	35. The Consulting Criminal

**A/N- Hello, my spicy chili peppers!**

 **Quick question: Exactly how horrible a person do I have to be to die laughing at all the comments from the previous chapter?**

 **Answer: A complete and utter piece of shite. XD**

 **Sorry (not sorry), it couldn't be helped.**

 **Disclaimer: _Sherlock_ belongs to the BBC. If I did own it _,_ we'd get a much less confusing season four.**

 **Much less.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

It was time.

Sherlock opened the door and stepped into the large room. It was dimly lit, the ripples of the highly chlorinated water in the swimming pool reflecting the walls. A light mist protruded eerily over the water, signifying the humidity about the room— something Sherlock had suspected, resulting in him leaving behind his coat and scarf back at the flat. But that didn't matter to him. All that mattered to him now was the meeting that he had scheduled here with the bomber in question— his fan, if all previous pieces of evidence were correct.

This Moriarty.

He walked slowly out into the open with his hands behind his back, his fingers fiddling with the memory stick containing the Bruce-Partington plans. He's suspected for a while— since the beginning of this game— that all of these puzzles were just a ruse to keep him from finding the plans. So he lied to John about returning it to his brother. Instead, he waited until the army doctor and his niece were out of the flat— safely away from him— before he uploaded a post on his website, telling the bomber to meet him here at the pool at midnight.

The place where it all started, and the place where it will be finished.

He slowed to a stop along the shallow end of the pool, eyes warily roaming the upper gallery that was shrouded in darkness above him, well aware that it was the perfect hiding spot with an even more prefect vantage point. He had no doubt that anyone could be up there at that very moment. But that didn't stop him from doing what needed to be done.

"Brought you a little _'getting-to-know-you'_ present," he called out as he held up the memory stick, turning in a slow circle, looking around. "It's what it's all been for, hasn't it? All your puzzles— making me dance— all just to distract me from _this_."

He gazed up into the gallery with his back turned to the pool with a light frown when he received no response at first. Then, from behind him, he heard a door creak open. He looked over his shoulder, still holding the memory stick aloft, and he froze.

John Watson walked through the door and stood several feet away from Sherlock, wearing a bulky, military green parka, with his hands tucked into its pockets. He stared at Sherlock with a blank, unreadable expression, whilst Sherlock stared back in complete shock.

"Evening," John spoke up, his tone even and borderline lifeless as he stood there. "This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?"

"John…" Sherlock said, his voice soft with disbelief, his usually sharp mind unable to grasp what he was seeing, "what the hell—"

"Bet you never saw this coming, did you?"

Sherlock lowered his hand, many thoughts flashing through his head as he took cautious steps toward his 'flatmate.' First and foremost were feelings of hurt and betrayal shooting through him— something he never thought he'd have to feel. The first person in a long time that he'd let into his life and work, someone who could actually stand him and his unconventional tendencies and not called him a freak— someone he could finally call a _friend—_ and it turned out that it was him making him dance all along.

And he dragged his niece into it.

That was another thing that sent a shot of worry through Sherlock: Where was Harley? Did she know about John? If she didn't, then…well, she'd be so upset and so hurt that Sherlock could hardly imagine it, especially after everything they've all been through together. And even more so, if she didn't know, then she was in grave danger.

But then, withdrawing his hands from his pockets, John grasped onto the front of his coat and drew it open, revealing that a bomb was strapped to his chest. A look of despair that matched Sherlock's took over John as the red dot of a sniper's laser appeared over the bomb.

"What…would you like me…to make him say next," John said robotically, obviously repeating words given to him through an earpiece that was now visible when John shifted slightly. "Gottle o' geer….Gottle o' geer…Gottle o'gear…"

"Stop it," Sherlock growled dangerously as he looked around the room once more, trying to find any sort of indication that the person behind this was in the vicinity. When he came up short, he turned back and walked toward John, who stared back. His face was hard, but his eyes were pleading, full of dread and fear. That was all Sherlock needed to know: John wasn't responsible for all of this; he was merely being forced into being a final pawn in the bomber's game.

But one thing still remained: Where was Harley?

"Nice touch this. The pool…where little Carl died," John continued to narrate. "I stopped him…" John cringed, closing his eyes before he looked down at the red dot which had moved to settle right over his heart, "…I can stop John Watson too…stop his heart…"

"Who are you?" Sherlock demanded into the dark room, looking around in all directions.

Then another door opened from far across the room. "I gave you my number," a soft voice lilted out, "I thought you might call."

Sherlock turned at the voice and caught a glimpse of a man whose body was mostly obscured from view by a column, but as soon as they made eye contact, he slowly stepped out into the open— a man with dark, neatly combed back hair, an expensive, pressed suit, and a sinister look on his face. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the familiar man walking casually toward them with his hands in his pockets. He shifted his body so that one side faced the man, his right hand reaching out behind him where he kept his pistol.

"Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?" the man asked.

Sweeping his face of any emotion, Sherlock pulled the gun from his trousers and aimed it at him. "Both," he replied.

The man stopped and stared at Sherlock. "Jim Moriarty," he introduced himself with a playful smile. " _Hiii_!"

When Sherlock merely tilted his head to the side, he explained, "Jim? Jim from the hospital?" Jim bit his lip, feigning disappointment as he continued his small trek around the pool. "Oh, did I really make such a fleeting impression on you? Though, I suppose that was rather the point…" then he added lowly, "…Then again, the small one seemed to recognize me immediately."

Sherlock's eyes flashed at this statement, and his free hand instantly went up to steady the gun more, finger resting on the trigger. But out of the corner of his eye, he saw the red dot flicker higher over John's chest. His gaze briefly shifted to the army doctor, who swallowed thickly, before returning to Jim.

"Oh, don't be silly. Someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like getting my hands dirty," Jim chastised. He came to a stop just ahead of the two men, staring Sherlock down with an ominous expression. "I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock. Just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big, bad world. I'm a specialist, you see…" his face suddenly brightened, "…like you!"

"'Dear Jim," Sherlock began, putting the pieces together, "'please, will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover's nasty sister?'" Jim looked down a with dangerously coy grin on his lips as he walked slowly toward them. Sherlock continued, "'Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?"

"Just so," Jim said.

"Consulting criminal," Sherlock whispered, feeling a reluctant sense of appreciation. "Brilliant."

"Isn't it?" Jim said proudly. "No one ever gets to me…" his grin faded away, "…and no one ever will."

Sherlock swiftly flipped the safety off the gun with his thumb. "I did."

"You've come the closest, Sherlock," Jim said. "But now you're in my way."

"Thank you."

"I didn't mean that as a compliment."

"Yes, you did."

Jim shrugged boyishly. "Yeah, okay, I did. But the flirting's over, Sherlock." His voice became high-pitched and sing-song as he said, _"Daddy's had enough now!"_ His voice returned to normal. "I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little problems— even thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play."

Sherlock spared a glance over at John, who had his eyes closed, obviously trying to keep it together.

"So take this as a friendly warning…my dear…back off," Jim told them before he smiled gleefully, approaching them. "Although, I have loved this— this little game of ours. Playing Jim from I.T. Playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?"

"People have died," Sherlock said steadily, not giving him the satisfaction of answering his question. Moriarty was now only a few feet behind John, who was finding it more and more difficult to stay still, though he knew the consequences of what might happen if he moved.

"That's what people _DO!_ " Moriarty screamed the last world violently, his face momentarily revealing his true, destructive nature. His voice reverberated throughout the room until there was a heavy silence between the three men.

"I will stop you," Sherlock vowed quietly.

Jim shook his head. "No, you won't."

Forgetting Jim for an instant, Sherlock's eyes trained intently onto John. "You all right?" he asked.

John didn't answer, not meeting his gaze, giving Sherlock the assumption that he was given instructions not to speak freely.

That changed, though, when Jim came up behind him, leaning toward him until he was right next to his ear. "You can talk, Johnny Boy. Go ahead," he said teasingly.

John's eyebrow twitched. He lifted his gaze to Sherlock and nodded curtly, refusing to specifically obey Jim's orders. His eyes still betrayed desperation behind his solemn mask.

Sherlock took one hand off the pistol, offering Jim the memory stick. "Take it," he said.

"Huh? Oh, that," Jim said as he strode past John and reached out for the stick with a glint in his eyes, not remotely uneased by the fact that Sherlock was pointing at gun at him at point blank range. "The missile plans..." He took the stick from Sherlock's fingers and kissed the top of it. Then, with a grin, he sang, " _Boring!_ I could've gotten one of these anywhere!" And with a playful flick, he tossed the memory stick aside and into the pool.

Sherlock was so focused on Moriarty that when John suddenly lunged at him from behind, he involuntarily stepped back in surprise, his hold on the gun wavering briefly as John wrapped one arm around Jim's neck, the other around his stomach, putting him in a strong hold.

"Sherlock, run!" John yelled.

Jim, instead being angry by the turn of events, actually laughed in delight. "Oh, ho ho! Good! _Very_ good!" he praised.

Sherlock didn't move, instead keeping his aim onto Jim as his eyes roamed above at the gallery anxiously, wondering what the hidden sniper might do, going by how the red laser was moving between John and Jim.

John growled as he tightened his grip on him. "If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we _both_ go up!" he hissed.

"Awww, isn't he sweet?" Jim said, slightly struggling under John's hold. "I can see why you like having him around. Then again, people do get so sentimental about their pets. They're so _touchingly_ loyal, but oops!" He grinned wickedly at John before turning to Sherlock. "I believe you've shown your hand there, Dr. Watson."

Sherlock watched as the fierce determination on John's face slowly deteriorated into shock, and he realized why when he caught a glimmer of a red laser beam shining from the gallery down toward him: there was another sniper trained onto him. However, while John was now cautious, he still refused to let go of the consulting criminal.

"Oh, still not enough?" Jim said when John didn't move, not at all perturbed. "That's okay. After all, it's always good to have an extra gambit."

Just as Sherlock and John were wondering what he meant by that, he turned his head and called out into the darkness of the enormous room in his despicably sing-song voice, "Oh, _boyyys_! Can little Harley come out to play?"

Both the consulting detective and the ex-army doctor stiffened. Then the door that Jim came in through squeaked open once more, followed by slow, heavy footsteps. Soon, a man wearing a black suit, with a just as black ski mask covering his face, came out into the open. Clearly he was a henchman of Moriarty's, and Sherlock could easily deduce him despite the man's attempt to hide his identity.

However, he was too distracted by the sight of the man dragging in a limp, _severely_ injured Harley by the scruff of her shirt like she was dead weight.

Sherlock could feel his chest constrict when the henchman roughly pulled Harley up to his chest and wrapped an arm around her neck, revealing her almost entirely bruised face from her unkempt hair. Dried, crusted blood trailed down from both her nostrils, while fresh blood oozed down from the back of her head, down her neck, and soaking into her shirt, standing out against her now pale white skin. Her eyes were closed, eyelids fluttering occasionally, her mouth parted slightly as she breathed raggedly.

"Oh, my God," John whispered when, to add even more to his horror, the man pressed the barrel of a gun against her temple.

"Gotcha!" Jim said with sick pleasure.

Hands shaking, John removed himself from Moriarty, not taking his wide eyes off of Harley. When he backed off, Jim brushed his suit and straightened it with an annoyed face. "Westwood," he said.

"What did you do to her?" John asked, his voice dangerously soft.

"Me? Nothing!" Jim said, looking hurt from being accused, before his smile returned. "Him, though…well, like I said: Don't like to get my hands dirty. All I wanted was to make her scream, after all…and I did."

John stared at him with a look that was nothing short of murderous while Sherlock glared at him, hands tightening around the gun, but didn't go farther than that to reveal just how so full of rage and apprehension he truly was. Jim wasn't bothered by either of them, though, as he kept on talking.

"You know, you left out one last, little piece to the puzzle, Sherlock," Jim said, eyes flickering over to Harley once, before deliberately narrating, "'Dear Jim…please, will you fix it for me so my wife won't know that I nearly killed our mentally defective kid.'"

Jim huffed out a chuckle when Sherlock blinked and John drew in a sharp breath in shock. "Just so," he repeated. "I guess what they say is true, isn't it, Sherlock?" His eyes lingered once more onto the girl, "You can't break what's already broken."

For a long moment, none of them spoke, making Harley's raspy breaths perfectly heard from across the pool. Sherlock's face reverted back to its stone cold mask as he stared Jim down.

"Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock, to you?" Jim asked.

"Oh, let me guess: I get killed?" Sherlock said in a bored tone.

"Kill you?" Jim winced, scrunching his face up and baring his teeth. "No, no, no. Don't be obvious. I mean— I _am_ going to kill you anyway, someday. I don't want to rush it, though. I'm saving that up for something special. No, no, no, no." The playfulness in his expression melted away as he ran his eyes blankly up and down at Sherlock. "If you don't stop prying, I'll burn you." He met Sherlock's gaze, and his voice became vicious, nearly animalistic, as he snarled, "I will burn the _heart_ out of you."

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one," Sherlock said monotonously.

Jim sent him a knowing smirk. "But we both know that's not quite true." He looked down, smiling, before he shrugged. "Welp! I better be off," he said as he nonchalantly looked around, most likely checking his exit routes, before settling on the door not far from John. He turned back to Sherlock. "It was so nice to finally have a proper chat with you."

Sherlock raised his gun to re-aim it right at Jim's head. "What if I was to shoot you now? _Right_ now?" he asked curiously.

Jim rolled his eyes slightly as though the fact that his life was being threatened was just a minor inconvenience. "Then you can cherish the look of surprise on my face." He widened his eyes and opened his mouth into an "O", producing the most shocked expression he could muster, before reverting his face back to normal. "Because I'd be surprised, Sherlock— _really_ , I would. But also a teensy bit…disappointed. And, of course, you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long."

He raised his arm and made a subtle hand motion. Then Sherlock's eyes flicked over to the other side of the pool as the masked man shoved Harley forward, making her collapse to the floor in a crumpled heap, before he darted back and disappeared through the door. It took every ounce of willpower for Sherlock not to turn the gun onto him and open fire. Harley lay where she fell, unmoving.

"Ciao, Sherlock Holmes," Jim bid farewell, turning the consulting detective's attention back onto him, as he gradually turned away and calmly walked toward the door.

"Catch…you…later," Sherlock told him, keeping his gun on the consulting criminal until he opened the door and stepped through.

 _"No, you won't!"_ Jim sang back to him as the door slammed shut.

No one moved for five seconds flat, Sherlock's gun still aimed at the door. Sherlock's eyes drifted over to John, then to Harley's motionless form. Then, when he felt that it was finally safe to move freely, he put the gun down on the floor as fast as he could before he knelt in front of John. He began to unfasten the vest, hating the fact that his hands were trembling.

"All right?" Sherlock asked frantically as he quickly undid the straps keeping the vest on. "Are you all right?"

John didn't answer at first, his head tilting back as he breathed heavily, feeling numb and light-headed.

"John," Sherlock pressed as he scrambled to pull the parka and bomb off.

"Yeah…yeah…but…Sherlock," John struggled to say, feeling like he was going into shock. When Sherlock finally got him free of the bomb and practically threw it across the room away from them, John staggered backwards until he hit the wall, and he sank down into a sitting position.

"Sherlock," John spoke again, his voice hoarse and weak. "Get…get Harley."

Sherlock gave a sharp nod before he sprinted around the pool. When he reached Harley, he fell to his knees. His eyes ran over her swiftly, inspecting for any more damage now that he was close to her, and he nearly grimaced. A black eye, three broken fingers on her right hand, a split lip, broken nose, several dark bruises in places that weren't visible to the naked eye but Sherlock had no doubt they were there, suspected punctured internal organs.

What stopped his heart momentarily, though, was the sight of a pool of blood coming out from behind her head. He carefully maneuvered himself to her other side, not wanting to move her just yet. And there, under her bloodied hair, where her scar once was, was a new, freshly made cut.

"Oh, Christ," Sherlock breathed.

Knowing that he had to act fast, he quickly pulled off his suit jacket and, with all his might, he tore off the sleeves of his dress shirt. Hands still shaking, he folded the pieces of fabric into a patch and pressed it over the cut. As he tried to keep a steady pressure on the wound with one hand, he gently lifted her head from the floor with the other, tilting her face slightly toward him.

"Harley," he said softly, hoping to urge her awake.

He was surprised when in response, a strained but clear whimper made its way out of her mouth.

Keeping his hand over the cut, he slid his other arm under her legs and lifted her up, leveling her head steadily against him. Careful not to jostle her too much, he made his way back over to John.

"She's lost a lot of blood," Sherlock said as the ex-army doctor took her from him and settled her onto his lap. John took one look at the cut and his eyes widened, looking like he was about to get sick. But then he shook his head furiously before his face hardened, quickly regaining his resolve, knowing that taking care of his niece was now his number one priority. He tore off his black cardigan with one arm and pressed it on her cut, helping to stop the bleeding.

While John was tending to Harley, Sherlock swiped the gun from the floor and hurried to the door where Jim had exited out of, checking to make sure that the consulting criminal was truly gone. Then he went back to where the Watsons were and started pacing. He scratched the back of his head with the gun, but he was still too overcome with anxiety over what had just transpired to worry about how dangerous that was.

"Are you all right?" John asked, glancing up at him.

"Me? Yeah, fine. I'm fine," Sherlock answered quickly, trying to convince himself as well as John. He fought to control his breathing as he stopped pacing and turned back to John. "That…that thing that you— that you did…that you offered to do…that was…" he cleared his throat, "…that was good."

"Well, I'm glad no one saw that," John said plainly, staring down at his niece.

"Hmm?" Sherlock hummed questioningly.

"You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool— people might talk," John elaborated, lifting his head slightly to Sherlock. Sherlock realized then that he was saying that to help ease the tension between the two of them, and also to help distract them from the events.

Sherlock responded in kind by shrugging and saying simply, "People do little else." He looked down at him and grinned.

John managed a soft snort before he carefully shifted his hold on Harley. "We need to get her out of—"

Then he stopped when a red light pulled his gaze back downwards, and saw that the lasers of the sniper rifles had returned. This time two of them settled on Harley's and John's chests, and several more trained onto Sherlock, who stood still as a statue.

John swore under his breath, their moment of relief ripped away from them, as the door at the deep end of the pool opened and Moriarty stepped out, clasping his hands together.

"Sorry, kiddies! I'm _soooo_ changeable!" He boasted ecstatically. "It is a weakness with me, but to be fair to myself, it _is_ my only weakness. You can't be allowed to continue…you just can't. I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!"

Turning his head slightly, Sherlock looked down at John and met his gaze. He showed no emotion, but his eyes told a different story, begging for an unspoken request. John knew instantly what the consulting detective was implying, and at first, he didn't respond. He glimpsed down at his niece with a conflicted frown. He agreed with Sherlock on what needed to be done, but he also wanted to ensure Harley's safety. He knew deep down, though, that they have long since passed the point of no return.

Because they were all going to die anyway.

Eyes shutting tight in anguish, John held Harley closer before he looked up at Sherlock once more. He nodded faintly.

Sherlock held his flatmate's gaze for another millisecond, showing the barest hint of remorse toward him and his niece. _I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry, Harley,_ he thought. Then he turned to face Moriarty, looking cold and determined. "And probably _my_ answer has crossed _yours_ ," he said evenly as he raised his pistol and aimed it at Jim, who simply gave a confident smile.

But then it dropped when Sherlock slowly lowered the gun until it was pointed directly at the bomb jacket. Jim tilted his head, betraying concern for the first time. Meanwhile John stared at the scene fretfully, and Sherlock kept his demeanor eerily calm and collected as Jim locked eyes with Sherlock. A corner of Jim's mouth twitched up into a daring smirk, and Sherlock's eyes narrowed as they continued to stare each other down. The tension in the room was so thick, one could cut it with a knife.

And then it was broken by the sound of the Bee Gees playing _Stayin' Alive_ in the form of a ringtone, coming from Jim's trouser pocket. Sherlock and John looked at each other in confusion, while Jim closed his eyes in and sighed in exasperation.

"Do you mind if I get that?" he asked.

"No, no, please," Sherlock replied indifferently. "You've got the rest of your life."

Jim took his phone from his pocket, briefly glaring at it in annoyance before he hit talk and put it to his ear.

"Hello?...Yes, of course it is. What do you want?" he asked the caller before mouthing, _Sorry_ , to Sherlock, who sarcastically mouthed back, _Oh, it's fine._ Jim rolled his eyes and turned his back on them as he listened into the phone. Then he suddenly whirled back around, his face distorted with fury. "SAY THAT AGAIN!" he roared.

Harley's body convulsed from the scream, another whimper escaping her lips. John held her close, quietly shushing her. Sherlock's eyes flickered to them before he frowned at Jim.

"Say that again, and know that if you're lying to me, I will find you…and I will _sssskin you_ ," Jim hissed venomously. Sherlock glanced down at John, who was watching Jim with a disturbed expression, before looking back at him as well. "Wait," he told the person on the other line before he lowered the phone and walked forward. Sherlock readjusted his grip on the gun warily as Jim approached him.

Then Jim stopped, staring at the floor thoughtfully before saying, "Sorry…wrong day to die."

"Oh, did you get a better offer?" Sherlock asked flatly.

Moriarty smirked, looking down at his phone, then met Sherlock's gaze one last time. "You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock," he promised before turning around and walking away. He put the phone back to his ear and spoke into it once more, "So if you have what you say you have, I will make you rich. If you don't…I'll make you into shoes."

Upon reaching the door, he raised a hand and clicked his fingers, and instantly all the laser dots focused on Sherlock and the two Watsons vanished. Along with the sound of the door slamming shut, indicating Moriarty's departure, there was also the quick scuffling of feet above in the gallery and several other doors closing. Sherlock searched the area above, but found nothing in his sight. He lowered the gun.

Finally, there was silence.

"What happened there?" John asked.

Sherlock stared ahead in deep thought. "Someone changed his mind," he answered softly. "The question is…who?"

If someone could change Moriarty's mind from killing them— from ending the game completely— what did they have to say to make that so? Sherlock supposed that being "so changeable" truly was his only weakness. He was just relieved that it had worked in their favor this time.

With Moriarty gone— for good this time— it seemed to the two men that the nightmare was finally over.

But then, as John moved to get up and carry Harley away, the girl's eyes suddenly flew open as she gasped, heaving deep lungfuls of air. Sherlock whipped his head around to face them from the sound.

"Harley!" John exclaimed when, to his absolute shock, she started to struggle against him. Her breathing became erratic as her eyes darted wildly about, as if she was seeing something no one else could see, her face awash with terror as she frantically tried to break free.

"Harley, it's me! It's Uncle John!" John told her, attempting to calm her down, but it fell on deaf ears as she continued to fight back. She was far too weak to inflict any real damage, but the fact that she was in such a state of hysteria, as opposed to her usual stoic and often witty manner, sent both men into a panic. Seeing her with that vulnerable, distressed face awakened something deep and primal within Sherlock that he never even knew he had as he hurried over to them.

Still trying to restrain Harley, John looked up at Sherlock with despair.

"Call an ambulance. _Now."_

* * *

 **A/N- What ho? Another hanging of the cliffs? How _very_ unpredictable of me. **

**Well, I did learn from the best, after all. *bows in respect to my one true master, Emperor Rick Riordan***

 **Also, Jimmy...you are a scary, scary man.**

 **All joking and wreaking mayhem aside, thanks to everyone who's taken the time to actually read this far and put up with all my...ness. It really means a lot, especially now that were finally, _finally,_ emerging out from the intense and howling dark cave that is season one...and into some rather pressing matters that need to be resolved.**

 **Until then, see you in the next installment, you cutie cucumbers!**


	36. Bitter Revelations

**A/N- Waddup, my smokin' hot tamales!**

 **Apparently, I've made some enemies out of some of you guys from the last couple of chapters.**

 **Can't say I didn't enjoy it.**

 **Don't worry, though. As fun as it was, the time of bombshell cliffhangers has come to an end. The next couple of chapters are just more...well, sad, than anything.**

 **Disclaimer: I only own my OC.**

 **WARNING: Mentions and implications of abuse.**

 **Enjoy, nonetheless.**

* * *

"God damn it!" John snarled.

Sherlock glanced up at him. "Still went to voicemail?" he asked plainly, knowing full-well the answer to that.

Ignoring him, John furiously muttered obscenities under his breath as he continued to pace the floor in front of Sherlock. Then he pushed the dial number, attempting to phone his sister for the ninth time in a row. Sherlock sighed heavily as he sat back in his chair. He took out his own phone and checked a message recently sent to him by Lestrade, informing him that the pool had been thoroughly searched, cleared out, and the bomb defused. Putting the phone back in his pocket, he rested his steepled hands over his chin as he stared ahead at another row of empty chairs, relieved that he and John were currently the only ones in the relatively quiet waiting room.

They'd had Harley rushed and admitted into St. Bart's hospital over four hours ago. They hadn't seen her since she was wheeled away by the doctors and nurses the second they arrived, but they were given frequent updates on her condition from time to time while they took refuge in the waiting room. The doctors had managed to sustain any of her physical injuries before they could become fatal— most importantly the gash on the back of her head and neck— and gave her a quick blood transfusion, bringing her vitals and blood pressure back up into safe range.

Now she was sleeping it off. At least, that was what John and Sherlock were told. They still weren't permitted to see her yet.

It was driving John mad, but not nearly as much as how Harriet kept on ignoring his many calls and messages. Knowing her, she was most likely passed out and dead to the world at this hour. Not that he gave a damn.

"Harry, your daughter has been attacked and is now in the hospital," he hissed into the phone, leaving a message, "So if you have _any_ sense left in that buzzed brain of yours, you'll call back and haul your arse here."

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed slightly at this, but otherwise kept his face passive as he stared ahead pensively. He wasn't too worried about Harley's medical injuries— not anymore, at the least. They have already been taken care of, and would eventually scar and heal in time, as all other physical wounds do.

Psychological wounds, on the other hand, were a much different story. The mind can be a far more difficult thing to mend, after all.

And those things Jim Moriarty had said about her…

Sherlock closed his eyes and delved deep into his thoughts. Harley Mabel Watson. Daughter to Harry and surrogate daughter to Clara. Twelve years old. Mute. Inquisitive. Resourceful. Witty. Loyal. Avid Reader. Distrusts authority and other adults she doesn't know. Cares for her uncle. Reserved. Anxiety. Insecure. Broken home. Hurt. Damaged.

Sherlock frowned at those last few deductions before he went even deeper.

It was time to resolve this once and for all.

Because at this point, Harley's life depended on it.

He strung together every piece of information he had gathered on Harley— from the moment she arrived to his flat to here and now, in this hospital. From her mannerisms, to her mental state, to her scar, to everything John had told him regarding her, to her unconscious reactions to even the tiniest of things— the way she drew into herself whenever she was witness to conflict between others, the way she flinched when someone came onto her too strongly, the way she acted toward her uncle's potential dates…the way she would desperately try to get something across but something constantly held her back. Add the consulting criminal's remarks to the board, and he soon came to a conclusion that made him tense, his insides tightening.

He now had an idea as to why Harley was exactly the way she was.

But he needed more data before proceeding. More importantly: he needed proof.

He opened his eyes, bringing himself back into the waiting room. He must've been in his mind palace for quite some time, going by how the sun was just starting to rise outside and John was no longer pacing, and was instead sitting next to him. The ex-army doctor was hunched forward, legs tapping rapidly against the floor— a nervous trait that he and Harley shared.

Sherlock stood and walked across the room. He pulled his mobile out and dialed a familiar, yet rarely used number. After only two rings, the voice of his brother drawled through the other line.

"Sherlock."

"Mycroft."

"This is a surprise. You're actually calling me for a change? To what do I owe this—"

"Cut the banalities, Mycroft. If you're the infuriatingly meddlesome older brother that I know you are, you've already been made aware of the situation we're in," Sherlock cut him off irritably before getting straight to the point, "I need you to do something for me. It's important."

"Oh? And what is that?"

"I want Harley Watson's medical records from the past six years— all of them. I want the names of the doctors who treated her for a serious head wound, and I want them all brought in for questioning. Also, I want to ensure that Harley gets the best treatment here— all background checks on anyone who tends to her— and that she's under constant watch and protection."

There was a long pause between the two brothers that set Sherlock on edge.

"My, my, Sherlock," Mycroft finally spoke, "if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were actually concerned for this girl's well-being."

Sherlock gritted his teeth. He could practically _feel_ the smug amusement seeping through the phone. "Are you going to do it or not?" he demanded. "Or is it not within your protocol with your 'minor position'?"

He heard Mycroft sigh heavily. "Very well, I'll do it. And I assume you'll want Detective Inspector Lestrade included on your little investigation?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Obviously."

"Clearing the rest of his schedule right now. I will also send my assistant to give you the records in an hour, tops."

Sherlock scoffed. "A whole hour? You're getting slow at your age, brother dearest."

Mycroft chose not to take the bait. A wise choice. "Everything else will be taken care of straightaway."

"Good to know."

"Yes. And Sherlock?"

Sherlock resisted the urge to hang up on him there and huffed. "What?"

Mycroft's voice lowered into that scathingly scolding tone. "Whatever you're going to find…don't get emotionally involved."

Sherlock's brow furrowed before answering with a curt, "Fine," and quickly pressed the end call button. He turned around to find that John was standing again. Only this time, he wasn't pacing, instead staring at Sherlock with a blank expression.

"You're going to look more into this, aren't you?" John asked, his voice even, almost lifeless. "Going to treat this like a case. Because that's what Harley is now….a case."

"John…" Sherlock began, but stopped when John held a hand up. Then he blinked when his flatmate in question took on a rather severe look.

"What can I do to help?" he asked the detective.

Sherlock regarded him steadily for a moment. "You may not like what we'll find," he warned. "And things will never be the same for Harley, you, and your family."

"I don't care," John insisted, unwavering. "I just want someone to pay for what that girl was put through. Even _you_ understand that, don't you?"

Sherlock stared intently at him before nodding. "All right," he said. "You can start by telling me exactly what happened that night— when you both were taken by General Shan and her men."

* * *

"Yes, and thank you for your time," Lestrade bid the surgical assistant farewell before rubbing a hand down his face tiredly. Then he left the interrogation room, down the short, narrow hallway, and found himself in another small room that overlooked the previous room through a one-way, soundproof glass with John and Sherlock, who had been watching intently.

"She's clean…just like the last one," he told them.

"Send in the next one," Sherlock ordered.

Lestrade sighed. "Look," he said, "We've been at this for hours. I'm worried about Harley too, but if we could just get more intel— more information so we know what exactly we're looking for—"

"I'll know when I see it," Sherlock snapped, glaring at the detective inspector irritably. "Now, _send in the next one_."

John simply watched the exchange between the two detectives until Lestrade left the room, then turned to gaze through the window, clenching and unclenching his fists. Normally, John would've scolded Sherlock for his rudeness, but his mind was far too preoccupied to worry about something that seemed so trivial now.

He'd searched through and studied every file that Anthea had given them as thoroughly as he could, trying to find any sort of inconsistencies in the reports— the fly in the ointment. But no matter how long his eyes burned into the papers, he'd come up short. Now he was almost near the end of his rope.

 _Keep it together,_ he told himself. _Do it for her. She needs you._

He was pulled out of his thoughts when another officer ushered someone into the interrogation room and had him sit down at the table. It was a young man, perhaps in his late twenties, with short brown hair, fair skin, a freckled face and hazel eyes, and wearing casual street clothes. He was looking around the room nervously with his arms crossed over his chest.

Sherlock stared at the man through the glass with a scrutinizing frown, and didn't take his eyes off him even as Lestrade came back with a file and began to read off of it.

"Branden Tyler. Twenty-nine years old. Started out on an internship at the hospital seven years ago until he was hired on as a nurse almost two years later."

 _Technically still just a kid in the medical field,_ John thought with a soft sigh. It sounded like they weren't going to get anything out of him either.

But then Sherlock's eyes widened slightly before he proclaimed in a firm voice, "We're taking this one."

Both John and Lestrade sent him equally surprised looks.

"What, really?" Lestrade asked. "You see something?"

"Observe, Lestrade, not see," Sherlock said before turning to leave the room, grabbing one of the folders. John immediately followed and fell into step with him. As they reached the door, Sherlock muttered to John under his breath, "Be ready."

"Right." John nodded to confirm before schooling his face.

With that, Sherlock opened the door, and they both stepped in. Branden turned around, staring at them suspiciously as the door closed and locked behind them.

"So," Branden started with a raised eyebrow, sitting back in his seat as he looked between the two of them, "which one of you is the bad cop? Just checking."

Sherlock's face was a cold, indifferent mask as he answered, "Both."

Branden looked taken aback, but his insolent manner quickly returned. "Is this going to take long? I already told those guys from earlier, I haven't done nothin'."

"Anything."

Branden turned to Sherlock in confusion. "What?"

"'I haven't done _anything_ ,' is what you meant to say."

Not wanting to waste any more time or for Sherlock to start a meaningless quarrel, John cut in, "We're just going to ask you a few questions."

Branden rolled his eyes and sat back in his chair. "Fine."

John took the folder from Sherlock and opened it up before placing it down in front of the man in question. "Do you recognize this girl?" he asked, referring to a photograph of a younger-looking Harley clipped over a stack of documents.

Brandon looked at the picture. John could've sworn he saw the man's eyes flicker in surprise before he quickly covered it up with a shrug. "Nope. Don't know her."

"Are you sure?" John asked. "You were registered on the clock at the community hospital where she was admitted six years ago. She was treated for a head injury; she was six years old at the time."

Branden blinked, silent, until he spoke up a few seconds later, "Oh…yeah. That kinda rings a bell. She came in with a gash from some accident. I was only an intern then. I just made sure she got the proper dosage of medicine from time to time. Nothin' too fancy."

"Exactly," Sherlock said, glaring at him.

Brandon flinched under the detective's stare. "W— what?"

Sherlock leaned forward, hands on the edge of the table. "You were just an ordinary intern. Fresh out of university. Who would've suspected someone like _you_? No doubt you had debts; payments you wanted to be rid of as well as be promoted to a job with a steady salary, and not do all the hard work to make it so. So when opportunity came along, you decided it was best to do some _dirty_ work."

"What?!" Branden demanded incredulously. "What the hell are you talking about?!"

"How much were you paid? Enough to have you get by comfortably?" Sherlock said icily, ignoring him. "Who was it, and what did they have you do to her?"

Branden sputtered before going off angrily, "This is bullshit! I don't know where you get off with accusing me, you bastard! I have no idea what you're going on about!"

Perhaps it was just months of living with Sherlock taking their toll on him, but John could easily tell that this young man was nothing but a liar trying to save his own skin. It made his blood boil. He and Sherlock glanced sideways at each other, and Sherlock wordlessly gave him permission with the faintest of nods, while Branden continued to rant at them.

"Your people drag me out of my house, bring me all the way here, then dump all this shit on me?! I don't have to put up with this! I'll sue your arses so hard you'll—"

That was as far as he got before John came up behind him and promptly slammed his head down onto the steel table.

 _WHAM!_

Branden cursed loudly as John yanked him back up by his hair. He clutched his nose in pain, which instantly gushed blood.

"What the hell?!" he moaned, his voice muffled.

Sherlock folded his arms impassively. "Ready to talk now?"

"I told you! I don't know what you're—"

John punched him across the face. Over the man's cry in pain, the door across the room swung open and Lestrade ran in. "John, Sherlock! Stop!" he exclaimed, but Sherlock held a hand up to stop him from advancing further.

"I'm willing to believe you any second," Sherlock said lowly. "But he's not." He gestured to John, who was glowering at Branden with a righteous rage. "He is that little girl's esteemed uncle, after all. So I suggest you say something else to appease him."

Branden cowered in his seat as much as he could when John began to close in on him again, still holding his nose. "Okay, okay!" he groaned pitifully. "It…it was her!"

"Her, who?" John growled dangerously.

"The— the woman who brought the girl in! Clara, Clara Banes. I think that was her name! _She_ did it!"

The three men exchanged a look before turning back to Branden.

"Keep talking," Sherlock pressed.

Branden wiped the blood from his nose. "She…she brought her in. Said the girl was her and her wife's daughter, and claimed that it was an accident to the ones tending to her. But later, while I was alone, she came to me. Told me she was the one who caused it, and offered me money to help cover it up.

"She said she got in touch with someone…and their people. They gave her something as well as some cash, told her to give them to me, and the rest would be taken care of."

Lestrade walked up to stand next to Sherlock, frowning. "What did she give you?"

"A drug of some kind— a memory inhibiting drug, made by the person that woman went to. She paid me to induce it into the girl's system while she slept. It was easy to do— I just added it into her saline drip while I was making my rounds. Then she had me write up the report that the girl got the injury from some accident at her school. She might've gotten others to help back up the claim too. I— I swear, that's all I know!"

The room was silent. Sherlock and John looked at each other for a moment before Sherlock turned to Lestrade. "I believe you can take care of rest for this one here, Inspector?" he asked.

Lestrade nodded before turning back to Branden with a scowl. The man's face contorted into fear, and opened his mouth to protest and beg, but it got lost on the way past his lips as the detective inspector roughly pulled him out of the seat and began to cuff his hands behind his back. Meanwhile, Sherlock and John left the room.

Back in the observation room, the two men were quiet at first, mulling over what had just transpired.

"You didn't contact Clara, did you? Just your sister?" Sherlock asked.

John looked at Sherlock, his expression unreadable. "No, I didn't call her," he said evenly.

"Good," Sherlock said. "It wouldn't do well for us if she was alerted of the situation and given plenty of time to run for it." He then pulled out his mobile, beginning to type into it. "I'll notify Mycroft; have him take her into custody and be…taken care of. I don't see why we need to put her through the trouble of court trial and imprisonment— that'd be far too kind."

John clenched his hands into fists at his sides. "There's just one thing I don't understand…" he muttered. "…why did she do it?"

Sherlock stopped his typing and looked up at his flatmate and friend, his dispassionate face softening ever so slightly. He considered his answer for a moment, before replying with, "I'm afraid you and Harry didn't know her as well as you thought you did."

* * *

When Harley woke up, she felt warm, dry, and safe.

It nearly scared her to death.

She opened her eyes and found herself staring straight up at a plain, white ceiling with bright lights. Blinking hazily, she looked around. She was in a single hospital room with tan walls, a television hung on the wall across from her propped up bed, a couple of chairs, and a large window that allowed the daylight to come through and onto the flowers sitting on the window still.

She moved her head tentatively, staring down at herself. Her clothes were gone, replaced with a bright blue hospital gown under the bed covers. She could feel bandages wrapped around her midsection and her right shoulder. She wore a brace on her right hand. Scattered over her arms, under her nose, and the back of her hand were taped, clear tubes— some that attached to a heart monitor which beeped a constant, steady beep. The tube on the back of her hand led up to an IV drip propped next to her bed that pumped a clear liquid into her system. That might've explained how she wasn't feeling a whole lot of physical pain.

She shifted uncomfortably, feeling a certain rigidity under her as she moved her head. Careful not to displace any of the tubes, she slowly lifted a hand, reached behind her, and felt around the back of her head and neck, her fingers gingerly brushing over a big, stiff patch of fabric, the area around it shaved clear of excess hair that was in the way.

That was when it all came back to her, why she was here…and not just the recent events that she was forced into enduring.

Her hand fell back to her side as she flopped her head against the pillow. Her throat closed up, her lips trembling, as a stinging sensation began to build up in her eyes. She closed them, and tears instantly flowed down her face. She sniffed.

The sound of the heart monitor briefly slipping away, images flashed across her vision. Scenes unfolded and voices yelling— the same ones that she frequently dreamed about, ever since her encounter with the Black Lotus. Except this time, it all came in more clearly. A familiar figure with a familiar face coming at her, hurting her, saying such horrible things to her. No one ever came to help her even as she screamed, only to be rewarded with even more pain. And when all of the hurting died down, the voice came back in a low tone.

" _Don't tell anyone."_

 _"_ _It's our little secret"._

Harley opened her eyes again, and suddenly, a barrier inside Harley broke free like a dam— a barrier she didn't even know was there, as it all came crashing down on her. Her face crumbled, more tears spilling down, as she broke out into choking sobs.

She wasn't sure how long she lay there in that room alone and cried, but it felt like hours. Eventually, her sobs gave away to shuddering breaths, and finally, she was spent. She wiped her raw face dry with her blanket, feeling like a complete, miserable wreck. She let out a heavy, shaky breath as she laid back and simply stared at the blank wall.

Sometime later, the door across the room opened, and every muscle in Harley's body stiffened.

A middle-aged woman came into the room. She wore a black skirt and a frilly maroon blouse underneath a white coat, and small, square glasses over her green eyes. Her dark but greying red hair was neatly tied up into a bun. She sent Harley a warm smile as she quietly closed the door behind her with one hand, the other holding a large note pad and a ball-point pen between her fingers.

"Hello, Harley," she greeted in a smooth, pleasant voice. "I'm Dr. Malone."

Harley just watched her as she strolled toward her. She waited for the woman to ask her how she was feeling and to check her vitals, but instead, she simply took a seat in the chair next to the bed.

Harley realized that Dr. Malone wasn't the medical kind of doctor. She swallowed.

"I know you must have so many questions," Dr. Malone said. "I'll answer as much of them as I can. You're at St. Bartholomew's Hospital. You've been here the past few days. Your uncle is just fine, and Sherlock, too." Her smile then softened in understanding. "And I am well aware of your condition."

With that, she gently slid the notepad and pen across the bedside table toward Harley, offering her to use it. "Whenever you're ready."

Harley stared at Dr. Malone in surprise, comparing her to all the other child psychologists she's had over the years, and how they'd never done what she just did right-out. Either she trusted her, or has simply dealt with much worse patients than her— most likely the latter. In the end, Harley decided to briefly return the trust. She reached a shaking hand out and took notepad and pen, dragging them into her lap. For a long moment, she stared down at the blank paper in front of her, before she pressed the pen into the yellow sheet and slowly wrote, her handwriting coming out more sloppy than normal, before showing the doctor:

 _I can't be here anymore._

Dr. Malone's smile faltered a little when she read it. "Why do you think that, Harley?" she asked as Harley started to write her reply:

 _My mum can't afford it. Neither can my uncle._

Something flashed through Dr. Malone's eyes before her smile returned. "Oh, Harley, you don't need to worry about that. That's all being well taken care of," she assured the girl. "You have a lot of people who care a great deal about you."

Harley looked away, pressing her lips together. Dr. Malone instantly picked up on that.

"What's wrong, Harley?" the doctor asked. "Do you not believe that?"

Harley breathed heavily through her mouth, hating the feeling of her throat closing up again. Shaking her head, she struggled to write:

 _I want to believe it._

"Then what's stopping you?"

Harley lowered the pen, not answering. Instead she quickly wiped her watering eyes with her arm, feeling ashamed. She thought she was all cried out from earlier, but it seemed she was wrong.

"Does it have anything to do with your home life? With your mother?"

Harley looked back at her, her face grim.

"I understand that your mother, Harriet, has a long history of alcoholism. Is that right?"

She nodded solemnly.

Dr. Malone leaned forward, her expression turning into something Harley couldn't quite read, as she asked carefully, "Harley, is she the one who made you think that way? Did she ever say or do anything that hurt you?"

Harley sniffled, trying to pull herself together, before weakly shaking her head. She wrote:

 _She drinks and sleeps a lot, but she never hurt me._

Dr. Malone considered this answer for a moment. "And what about Clara? She used to live with you two until several months ago, yes?" she asked. "She took care of you while your mother was otherwise indisposed?"

Harley swallowed thickly, feeling bile rise up into her throat. _I thought she did,_ was what she wanted to write, but it was as if something was holding her writing hand back, _dragging_ her back. She shut her eyes tight.

 _"_ _Don't tell anyone…"_

"Harley?"

She flinched and reopened her eyes, finding herself back in the hospital room. Dr. Malone stared at her in concern. "Are you back with us, Harley?" she asked calmly. "What's hurting you right now?"

Harley breathed deeply, not meeting the woman's eyes in humiliation.

"Are you going to let me help you?"

She shook her head timidly, looking down at her trembling fingers.

Dr. Malone was silent. Harley snuck a glance up at her, meeting her soft, sympathetic eyes. "I know you're in a lot of pain right now, Harley," she said gently, "but if you want to get better…you're going to have to."

Harley raised her head back up, fully meeting the doctor's gaze, which was naturally inquisitive, but also warm and kind, not at all as if Harley was just a mental case for her to dissect and unravel. She truly did just want to help her.

It was such a breath of fresh air to see from a specialist that it almost made Harley break down again.

With effort, Harley nodded.

Taking that as the initiative, Dr. Malone asked her, "Do you remember _anything_ from that night before you blacked out? Even the smallest things?"

Harley looked down at the paper, which now had a couple of droplets of tears that managed to drip off her chin, as she thought long and hard.

 _I remember leaving my uncle's flat,_ she began, _I was walking down the street with him, and…_

* * *

 **A/N- And thus begins the process of Harley's slow healing. Can't say it's going to be easy for her. It's like I said once: it always gets worse before it gets better.**

 **Thank you to everyone who's still reading along after all this time! I appreciate all the support and help that I get.**

 **Also, to the awesometacular reviewer known as _WizardingWhovian_ : My deepest apologies. I usually like to PM back with messages in case you didn't want anyone else reading it, but since you posted it as a guest, I was unable to. I will say this, though: you got me stumped bad. You should be proud of yourself. *gives high five in respect* **


	37. These Small Hours

**A/N- Hello, my sweet, gooey s'mores!**

 **Aw man, you guys _still_ lost your shit from the last chapter?! Sorry about that. **

**Don't worry. This one's still sad and feelsy in most parts, but it does end on a bit of a sweet note. Hope that tends to the wounds a little bit.**

 **Disclaimer: I only own my OC.**

 **WARNING: Mentions and implications of abuse and neglect.**

 **Songs that inspired this chapter:**

 _ **"Little Wonders"**_ **by Rob Thomas**

 _ **"To Have A Home"**_ **by Darren Criss**

 **Quotes that inspired this chapter:**

 **"** ** _At times, the world can seem an unfriendly and sinister place, but believe us when we say that there is much more good in it than bad. All you have to do is look hard enough. And what might seem to be a series of unfortunate events may in fact be the first steps of a journey." ~_ Mr. and Mrs. Baudelaire; Lemony Snicket's _A Series of Unfortunate Events_**

 ** _"_** ** _When we hit our lowest point, we are open to the greatest change." ~_ Avatar Aang; _The Legend of Korra_**

 **Embrace the feels and enjoy!**

* * *

Harley was in the hospital for a while after the incident, and not just because of her injuries.

Dr. Malone frequently came back and talked to her when it got quiet— asked her a lot of questions. It wasn't easy, but Harley answered them all as best as she could. And Dr. Malone was surprisingly good at helping her in getting her through them, being patient, supportive, and professional about it.

It took a long time, but after going through all the questions and answers between her and Dr. Malone, Harley realized that all of her nightmares— what she saw that ended up involving Clara hurting her and yelling at her— were all true. And after even longer, she started to remember that it happened a lot when she was much younger, while Harry was passed out drunk or busy at work. And the only reason Clara stopped doing it was because she went too far that one time— when she gave her that scar.

That was all it took, though. The one move that went too far that silenced her completely. Harley herself couldn't recall the event exactly, but one thing was for sure, it happened, and Harley just couldn't cope. Over time, she'd forgotten about the times when she was hurt, her memories of it becoming repressed. Dr. Malone said that when it comes to memories too painful and traumatic to keep, the human brain is capable of getting rid of them, thinking it was helping us. Forgetting was always much easier than remembering, after all.

The first couple of weeks in therapy were some of the longest, hardest days in Harley's life.

But to her, the absolute worst day of all was when she sat on her bed quietly— now IV free and wearing casual clothes again— while Dr. Malone told her uncle about what happened; what Clara used to do to her. She had never seen John look so angry, because he didn't know it was happening when it was and he wasn't there to stop it, but he was even angrier that his sister wasn't in her own right mind to put a stop to it when it was happening right under her nose. Seeing him sit there, slowly boiling in his own fury, was horrible to watch.

There were some good days, though.

The days that kept her going were the days when she could have visitors. John came in to see her every chance he got. The first time he visited, right after the talk, he did nothing but hug her tight, muttering how sorry he was over and over between tender kisses on the forehead. It took a few more visits for him to get more comfortable again and not beat himself up so much. He brought Sarah along once, who gave Harley various colored flowers and a get well card. She still acted a little awkward and unsure, but Harley could see that she was at least trying. That was enough, she supposed.

Molly Hooper came up to visit while she was on break from time to time. Even though Harley didn't eat or drink much while she was committed, Molly would always come in with a freshly made cup of tea from the cafeteria and that sweet smile on her face in the hopes that she would.

Mrs. Hudson did the same thing, except with homemade biscuits, covering it up by fussing over how Harley was forced to eat "rubbish hospital food." Harley wouldn't have minded if the landlady didn't always have that sad look whenever she thought she couldn't see her.

Detective Inspector Lestrade visited occasionally too— when he wasn't too busy working mandatory overtime at the Yard. He would ask her how she was doing, then tell her all about work and make jokes, or teach her how to play card games, acting like nothing was wrong. Harley appreciated that sometimes.

The last person Harley ever expected to see was Anthea. The personal assistant simply walked in, holding a rather large vase of yellow flowers, and set it on the table next to the bed. Then Anthea turned to Harley, who just sat there and watched her. "Mr. Holmes sends his regards, and wishes you a successful recovery," she said with a small smile, before she turned and walked out. Just like that.

Truthfully, Harley was astounded that Mycroft even bothered at all.

And then there was Sherlock Holmes, the younger.

The first time he came in to see her, it was actually a little after visiting hours had ended. Nearly everyone had gone home, and the night shift staff was starting to come in. How Sherlock managed to get past the security was beyond her, but there he was. Harley turned her head slightly from her seated position in front of the window when he entered the room, surprised at first to see him in his signature coat and scarf and holding what looked like a white plastic bag, before she resumed to gazing out at the London skyline that was just beginning to light up the evening sky. She heard him walk across her room, his steps light and calculated, before he sat down next to her.

He was quiet at first, looking like he was searching for the right words to say. Then he began to explain to her all about what happened after the event at the pool— questioning all those doctors who tended to her all those years ago, finding out about the intern, and that Clara had gotten help from the consulting criminal's people to cover up her act of terrible abuse.

It was…eye-opening for Harley, to say the least. All of those things said by Moriarty suddenly made sense.

"Your uncle doesn't think you can handle it, given your current mental state, but I imagine you've had enough of secrets being kept from you— being left in the dark," Sherlock said when he was finished. "I still have Mycroft's people— as well as my own— looking into who else may have been involved. I will assure you, though, that Clara is being taken care of as we speak." He looked at her. "You'll never have to worry about her again. I promise."

Harley only nodded lightly, gazing outside with a neutral expression. She didn't know what he meant by "taken care of", and she didn't _want_ to know.

He fell silent for another moment. Then he picked up the bag he brought in with him only to place it onto her lap. Harley looked down at it blankly.

"I've been constantly informed by John— and many others," he murmured that last part under his breath before continuing, "that gifts are a customary way to wish you to get well soon, or something of that sort. So…here."

Eyebrow raised a fraction, Harley cautiously opened the bag wider, peering in, before pulling out a large, thick, deep blue fabric. She held it up and it unfolded, revealing it to be a jumper— almost exactly like her old one that she had to get rid of, except it was new and didn't have any holes or stains, the color not faded and worn.

"Your uncle recommended this one. You Watsons and your jumpers. Most would consider it a mania, you know," Sherlock said with a smirk.

One corner of Harley's lips gave the lightest twitch. Careful not to make too much movement with her still-healing injuries, she pulled the jumper on over her plain white T-shirt. She felt at the material. It wasn't too tight while still being snug and warm.

"There's one more thing," Sherlock said.

Harley looked up as he pulled something else out of the bag— and she froze in astonishment to find that it was a rather thick book. She numbly took it from him and stared down at it. She rubbed her thumb over the hard, leather-like cover, which had a colorful stained glass window-like scheme, with a sword etched in an anvil at the center of it. The title read, _The Complete Tales of King Arthur and his Knights._

"Molly and Mrs. Hudson suggested I give you flowers instead," Sherlock told her with a brief look of disapproval, "but while flowers are nice to smell and look at, they eventually wilt and die. Books and their content, on the other hand, are forever. I figured you'd like this much more than some other plant taking up your space, anyway. Plus, I know that you're a bit of a King Arthur fan, so….Harley?"

He trailed off when he looked back at the girl, his face suddenly taking on a concerned expression when he saw that her head was bowed and turned slightly away from him. But he could still clearly see tears slowly dripping off her chin, her body shaking as she clutched the book tight.

"Harley, what— did I….was that not good?" he asked, looking lost. "I can always return it if you…"

She shook her head before frantically wiping her face dry. She looked up at him with still-shiny eyes in gratitude, holding the book close against her chest, finding it to be the most meaningful gift she's ever been given.

"So, that _was_ good, then?" Sherlock asked to clarify.

Harley let out a light scoff, her lips struggling to curve upwards, before she nodded yes, it was very good. _This man, I swear,_ she thought tiredly.

Sherlock let out a steady breath, almost in relief. "That's…good." He then met her gaze, his own softening. "And I know it doesn't mean much at this point, but I truly am sorry— for everything."

Harley didn't respond to that, as that was far from the first apology she's gotten since the incident, and it most likely won't be the last. But even though it hardly came close to fixing what happened, it was still a comfort to hear sometimes— especially from the people she had grown to care for. Dr. Malone told her that it there was nothing wrong with feeling terrible about things, but we shouldn't dwell so much on them that they shape us into what we'll eventually become in a negative way. What she went through, while tragic, _was_ important, and she needed to remember it. If she didn't, she probably would've been the way she was for the rest of her life: a broken girl, unwanted, too afraid to even let a single word fall out. Now, though, she had a chance to change things for herself, and for the better. She was tired of being afraid.

She still wasn't even close to feeling okay at this point, but for the first time in a long, long time, she desperately wanted to try. And hopefully, it wasn't too late.

Harley looked down at the book given to her, running her fingers absently over the edges of the pages as she thought for a moment. Then she opened up the book, turning to the prologue page, and hesitantly offered it to Sherlock, who immediately understood what she was silently asking of him. A soft chuckle escaped his lips.

"Oh, all right. If I must," he muttered, taking it from her.

She nodded, only this time, with a great amount of effort, the smallest hum made it out of her.

Sherlock blinked, caught off guard at first by the barely audible sound. Then he turned his head to focus back onto the book.

However, Harley could've sworn that he was trying to fight back a smile before he cleared his throat and began to read in his rich, baritone voice, _"In ancient days there lived a very noble king, named Uther Pendragon, and he became Overlord of all of Britain…"_

That was how some of the visits between Sherlock and Harley were, when it was just the two of them. He didn't see her as much as her uncle did, as he was often busy with going back to solving cases, whether private ones or whenever the police were out of their depth. But that was okay. Just being able to see him again was enough, at least for her.

And much like after the events of _The Blind Banker_ , Harley was amazed at how even after all that they went through, he was strong enough to easily pick himself back up and persevere with his life's work. That was something that she hoped to strive for someday. She wrote this to Dr. Malone during one of their sessions, and the woman grinned.

"That is a very good mindset, Harley," Dr. Malone had told her in reply.

Some of the times when Sherlock visited, usually when accompanied by John, he would tell her about some of the cases he was working on. One case she took interest to in particular had to do with a murder on a cruise line. However, since that case was still ongoing and because of certain legal matters that she didn't quite understand, John had Sherlock censor some things out for her. She was disappointed at first, but in the end, she was just pleased that she was able to spend some time with her uncle and the consulting detective together again.

* * *

The only time visiting hours became bad was when her mother tried to see her.

She was reaching her third week into her stay at the hospital, one afternoon. And, coincidently, Sherlock and John were both with her at the time— which made her wonder long afterwards if they knew what was coming beforehand.

All she knew was that they were watching a rerun of that trivia game show that John got Sherlock addicted to on the television, when John's phone bleeped, alerting him of a text message. Harley glanced over at him when he pulled it out of his pocket and looked at it, and she was about to turn her attention back to a laughably outraged Sherlock. But before she could do so, it was like John's entirety just…darkened. She tensed, knowing that something was wrong. Even Sherlock, after looking John's way, had completely lost interest in the show.

John only looked at the phone screen for two more seconds before he stood from the chair next to her. "I'll be right back," he said as he sent her a smile, but she could tell that it was forced. He headed for the door in swift strides, which, when Harley strained her ears to listen over the television, she realized that she could faintly hear voices outside the room— one louder than the others, and it sounded very familiar.

John quickly closed the door on his way out. Harley frowned as she tried to hear what was going on out there as John's voice joined in. Their voices weren't loud enough to pick up coherent words at first. But after a few more seconds, the first voice got even louder to the point where it was practically screaming. Harley blanched, recognizing the voice:

"I'm her mother! I have a right to see her!"

"Right, after shipping her away and not seeing or contacting her for over _four bloody weeks_ you have the gall to say that!" John's voice bellowed right back. "You don't get to choose when you want to be her mother, Harry! Not when it doesn't happen to inconvenience you!"

Their shouting match went on for about a minute, consisting of Harry saying that she just needed some time to herself after the divorce and all the stress of trying to take care of Harley, only to have John reproach her for that "piss poor excuse" and that it wasn't Harley's fault. Someone must've come out and told them that they were being too disruptive, because their voices soon lowered to the point where Harley couldn't understand them. Then their voices drifted down the hallway— meaning they were walking away— until she couldn't hear them entirely anymore.

But she'd heard enough. She gazed down at her clenched fists in her lap, fighting back tears.

Then a hand was placed on her shoulder. Flinching, she looked up at Sherlock, who came to sit down beside her. He didn't say anything, his face completely passive. She sniffed and wiped her nose with her sleeve. Then she took the remote and turned the volume up on the television some. Sherlock glanced at her, still silent, his emotionless expression not breaking, before he returned his attention to the telly.

He didn't spout anymore insults at the screen, which alarmed Harley a little.

It was almost an hour later until John rejoined them in the room. He stood at the doorway for about a minute, looking both conflicted and sad at the same time.

"John," Sherlock said, making the ex-army doctor look up. They locked eyes for an instant, an unspoken agreement and understanding forming between them, before John walked over and sat down by Harley's bedside. He twiddled his thumbs for a moment, trying to figure out the best way to explain to her.

"Harley," he began hesitantly, "about your mother…"

Harley sat very still.

"You see…Dr. Malone informed me about some of the things you told her— not just about Clara—" his tone turned bitter at that name, like the very word was poison to his mouth, "—but just about the way you were living at home, with…with Harry. And…well…to put it shortly, Social Services was brought in, and was told about the situation. She just has too many allegations against her— just from her drinking addiction alone. And they— they decided that…well…" And John was holding her hand now, squeezing lightly and gazing intently at her with those sympathetic eyes. "It's…not quite final yet, but from now on, you're going to stay with me…" his eyes flickered to Sherlock briefly, "…with us."

To Harley, time seemed to stop. Everything became deathly silent. Even the obnoxious noises from the television in the background had become stagnant. She didn't show any emotion, but her face paled. Somehow, she knew that this was coming— she _always_ knew, deep down, that it would happen one of these days, if Harry didn't get her act together. But to hear it being said out loud, for it to actually, finally happen; it left her feeling numb all over, not knowing what to feel at all.

She guessed that John was worried about how unresponsive she was to the news, because the very next day, Dr. Malone came in and asked her about it— how she felt.

She answered as bluntly as she could. _I don't know,_ she wrote on the notepad.

Dr. Malone hummed. "I figured as such. That's perfectly all right, though," she assured her. "Your life is going through this drastic change, and change is hard for _everybody_ , regardless how much of it there is. If anyone were to expect you to jump for joy, I'd call them an idiot."

Harley smirked in amusement. That statement sounded very Sherlock-like.

"You are entitled to feel sad and unsure about things, Harley. It's not a mental illness," Dr. Malone said. She adjusted her glasses on her nose. "However, what you do onwards that affects not just you, but the ones around you is a different story, I'm afraid. Remember what I said about our pasts shaping our future?"

Harley nodded.

Dr. Malone leaned forward and rested her chin in her hand, smiling gently. "So…what are you going to do about it?"

Harley turned to stare out the window at the grey sky over London, getting herself lost in her thoughts for a moment. She thought about all that she's seen and been through since her first arrival in this city. She thought of all the people she's met, how much they've grown to mean to her over time— and vice versa, as she'd gradually come to accept. Then she thought of her small moment of clarity back when Sherlock first visited her, how she wanted to make things better for herself.

She knew now that there were some things you just couldn't change. She couldn't change what happened to her. She couldn't change her mother. The only thing she _could_ change was herself. And that might just be the hardest thing she was going to have to do.

But it was a start.

Taking her pen, she began to write:

 _I want to get better…_

She paused, her hand only slightly shaking, before she gathered up her courage and finished off her answer with:

 _I want to be able to speak again._

Dr. Malone read Harley's reply carefully, her smile growing wider as she did so, until she looked up at the girl. "I think that's a great idea. I agree."

* * *

Three days later, Harley was finally released from the hospital.

"There she is," Dr. Malone said with a light air of cheerfulness, as Harley closed the door to her hospital room for the final time. Turning, she walked up and stood before the doctor, her uncle, and the consulting detective in the middle of the hallway. John smiled at her, while Sherlock simply nodded his head at her in acknowledgement.

"You got everything?" John asked her.

Harley glanced down at the red backpack she was holding, generously provided to her by the hospital to replace the one she lost, before nodding yes.

"Oh! Before you go, I have something to give you," Dr. Malone said. She reached into her handbag, ruffling a few things around for a moment. Harley watched her, curious, until Dr. Malone finally pulled something out and held it in front of her.

Harley blinked. It was a journal— a red, softbound leather journal that opened and closed with a flap over the cover, and bound together with a thick, black thread.

"This isn't for conversing or giving short replies," Dr. Malone said as Harley gingerly took the journal and stared at it. "This is for you, and you alone. You don't need to do it every day, but I recommend you start keeping a journal for your own personal thoughts and musings. It's been proven to help a lot of people with healing and self-discovery. And with your skills at writing, I doubt you'll be an exception."

"Thank you," John said for his niece, breaking the temporary silence.

Harley carefully tucked the journal in the front pocket of her backpack and slung it over her shoulder.

"So, I'll see you next Tuesday at five, then?" Dr. Malone asked.

Harley nodded in confirmation.

Dr. Malone smiled. "Okay, then. You take care now, Harley."

And so, with a gentle hand on her back, John began to lead Harley down the hallway, with Sherlock walking silently beside them. Before they rounded a corner, Harley spared one last look behind her, sending her doctor a small wave, which was returned in kind.

Outside, it was significantly warmer than what Harley was used to, the first real heat of late April overtaking London. Harley breathed in the fresh air as Sherlock flagged down a cab for them. A month. It was month ago when she inhaled her first breath of London air. It was almost hard to grasp.

After a quiet ride through the city, they finally arrived at Baker Street, pulling up in front of the black door with the flat number 221B bolted onto it. After paying the cabbie, they stepped inside.

The instant they did, the door to 221A bust open, and Mrs. Hudson came out.

"Oh, Harley!" she exclaimed with the biggest smile, her eyes tear-filled, as she bounded over toward her. And before Harley knew it, she was swiftly pulled into the landlady's tight embrace.

"Welcome home, sweetheart," Mrs. Hudson whispered to her.

 _Home._

It was funny how easily that little word could get Harley so choked up. She quickly fought it down before anyone could notice.

After letting her go, Mrs. Hudson went on about making them tea and biscuits for later, before she excused herself back into her flat to get to it, leaving the three of them free to proceed with their trek upstairs. Once there, Sherlock went into the living room, taking off his coat and scarf casually, while John and Harley kept ascending until they reached the rooms the next floor up.

They stepped into the guest room— _her_ room. Harley looked around, taking it in. There were a few changes since the last time she saw it. The closet was full of some of her clothes from back in Bristol, and she assumed that the chest of drawers held some of her clothes as well. Her old homework desk was placed in at the corner by the window, some of her old books on the small shelf next to it. She was already informed beforehand by John that he had some people he knew receive her things from her old room and had started to set them up in here. To see it, though…

"Will you be all right unpacking?" John asked, uncertain.

Harley nodded faintly.

"Okay." He wavered for a moment, before he gently reached out and brushed a strand of hair out of her face. "I love you, Harley."

She was starting to get pretty good at holding back her crying now— for someone who had an emotional breakdown not too long ago, that is.

John, with still-hesitant footsteps, exited the room, leaving her to settle back in. She didn't start right away, though. She approached one of the walls of her room, reaching out and placing a hand over the dull green, mildly rough texture of it. She closed her eyes and sighed. To think…her uncle had this room painted just so she would stay temporarily.

Fingers brushing over the wall, she removed her hand and went to sit on the edge of her bed, leaning down for her bag. She took out the journal given to her by Dr. Malone. She unwound the thread and opened it up, half-heartedly flipping through the many blank pages of the cream-colored parchment.

 _A personal journal, huh?_ she thought as she closed the book and tied it back up. Then she opened the small drawer in her bedside table and slipped the journal inside, keeping it there for the time being. She slid the drawer shut and went back to her bag. Just as she was taking out her new, regular notebook and pencil case from the top of her pile of clothes, there came a knock on her door. She glanced up to see Sherlock standing in her doorway. She immediately straightened.

"Just thought you should know that John's going to order take out for dinner. Chinese," Sherlock told her. "He wanted me to ask you if you wanted what you ordered last time."

 _Chinese again. I wonder if Uncle knows that there other kinds of food to get for take-out,_ she thought before nodding offhandedly.

"Very well. I'll…let him know," Sherlock said.

Harley regarded Sherlock, taking in his signature straight, stiff posture and facial expression. Then, briefly looking down at her notebook, she stood up and walked toward him before he himself could walk away, opening up the book. Sherlock stopped short, raising an eyebrow as she took a pen and wrote on the first page, then showed him:

 _After dinner, do you think you could tell me more about what really happened on the Tilly Briggs cruise?_

Sherlock said nothing for a long moment, his intense blue-green eyes moving from the message to Harley's grey eyes…

…until he smirked that devious smirk that only Sherlock Holmes could do so well.

"Only if you promise not to let your uncle know that I told you," he replied.

Harley managed to form a small smile. She glimpsed back at her backpack for an instant, thinking she could always unpack later, before she left the room, joining Sherlock in returning downstairs.

"But first, let me get you up to speed about this rather intriguing case I was recently given," Sherlock began, "It all started two days ago, when my client came in with his laptop completely melted through…"

Harley's slight smile gradually grew— her first proper smile in a long time— as she listened to him talk, his tone gaining more and more of that excitement that he only reserved for an interesting puzzle. Yes, she could worry about unpacking, or doing anything else for that matter, later. Right now, she just wanted to be with her uncle and flatmate.

Because it was when she was with them, was when she truly felt like she wasn't alone and that she was wanted.

That she felt like she was _home_.

* * *

 **A/N- I feel that I need to get something across here for a moment, mostly regarding abuse- physical and emotional. It's no secret that it can be one of the ugliest aspects of humanity, no matter what shape and form it comes in. It can be unreasonable. It can be a terrible, terrible thing to live with. And neglect? That can be just as horrible and damaging.**

 **So it's with this in mind that I hope you will understand why I chose not to go into too much detail regarding what happened with Harley and Clara. I feared that I'd be digging too deep into something that I could hardly fathom if I did. That's why I only gave away just enough information, leaving all those clues throughout the story, and leave the rest to your imagination as a reader. If not, then...well, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.**

 **And, wow. I didn't realize until I started uploading this that I made the end of the chapter seem so...I don't know. Final?**

 **But this isn't the end of Harley's story. Oh, no.**

 **We're just getting started, y'all.**

 **Also, now that we've reached this turning point in the story, I'd like to announce that not only am I continuing this story, but I'm also planning on writing a couple of companion fics to this.**

 **One of them is a series consisting of nothing but journal entries that Harley writes in the journal that Dr. Malone gave her, as she continues to heal. Because the good doctor is right, you guys: journaling _is_ good for healing and self-discovery. I was recommended it over a year ago while I was in my darkest place- when my uncle died- and not only has it truly helped me get through that darkness, but it made me discover some things about myself that I never even knew about. If you don't journal, I highly suggest it. You might surprise yourself.**

 **Another companion fic I got on my mind is the basic "series of one-shots." You know the drill; written scenes that didn't quite make it into the main story (like some moments when everyone visited her while in the hospital), moments in-between, cases, prompts, and many others. I've got loads of ideas, and I'm not letting them go to waste, dammit!**


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